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SELECTIONS 



FBOU 



/ 



THE WRITINGS OF 

MRS. SAMH C. EDGAHTON MAYO 

WITH A MEMOIR, 

BY HER HUSBAND. 



' The good, the loved, are with us though they die ; 
We think of them as angels in the sky ; 
But the deep firmament divides us not, 
Tliey 're with us in the densest crowd and in the loneliest spot. 

" With voice, and eye, and with the thrilling smile, 
Tliey answer not as they were wont erewhile ; 
But when deep yearnings all our spirits move, 
Their spirits softly whisper us, responsively, ' We love !' " 

S. C. E. M. 



BOSTON: 

A. TOMPKINS, 38 CORNHILL. 
1849. 



T5 2>37t 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1S49, 

BY A. TOMPKINS, 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Court of Massachusetts. 



STEREOTYPED BY 

H O B A R T & i; O B B I N S ; 

KKW ENGLAND TYPE AND STEREOTYPE FOUNDERT. 



PKEFACE. 



This book has been arranged in obedience to the request 
of the numerous personal friends of Mrs. Mayo, and of the 
Religious Denomination to which she belonged. The only 
merit claimed for it is, that it presents a picture of a woman 
who truly lived the spiritual life in all the relations of human 
existence, and who only wrote that she might express that 
love for nature, man, and God, which filled her own heart. 

I have prepared the memoir for those who knew her. 
They will understand that I could have vio-itten it only as it 
is, and will pardon any deficiencies in the execution of a work 
finished as in the presence of her whose absence has only 
chastened and deepened the love which has been my life upon 
earth. 

The selections have been made with a view to present the 
best results of her intellectual pursuits. Many will doubtless 
be disappointed that favorite pieces are omitted ; but such per- 
sons will recollect that, from the numerous articles she wrote, 
but a small proportion could be chosen ; and that the present 
form of publication demands an exercise of critical judgment 
in the arrangement which is not expected in the pages of a 
popular magazine. I have selected those productions which 
appear to me to give the fairest illustration of her power in its 
different spheres of manifestation, anxious above all things to 
let nothing appear which she would not wish to see in such a 
collection. 



IV PREFACE. 

To friends who have generously aided me by furnishing 
materials for the preparation of the memoir, I am very grate- 
ful. I cannot express my sense of their constant kindness to 
me shown in many ways. Their sympathy has done much 
for me during the few past months. May that golden chain 
which binds us together never be severed, till we are per- 
mitted, with purified affections, and stronger hands, to love 
and work together above. 

A. D. M. 

Gloucester, April 15, 1849. 



CONTENTS. 



PAOB 

Memoir, 9 

POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Tokens, . . .' 127 

To my Sisters, 127 

The Crown of Life, . ' 128 

The Good Shepherd, 129 

" The Pure in Heart see God," 130 

The Temptation in the Wilderness, 131 

Bow Brook, 132 

Types of Heaven, 134 

The Last Supper, 136 

Song, 138 

A Sketch from Life, 139 

The Spirit's Change, 141 

Lines written at a Waterfall, 142 

The Baptism, 142 

The Kingdom above, 143 

The Voice of the Dying, 144 

The Mountain Girl, 145 

The Wood-path, 149 

The Recall, 150 

Devotional Love, 151 

To a Star, . . .152 

Thou 'rt like thy Mother, Child, 154 

Love at the Grave, ........ 155 

The Woodland Retreat, 156 

Stanzas on the Death of Mrs. J. H. Scott, .... 157 

A Prayer at Night, 159 

Filial Love, 160 

My Father, 162 

1* 



VI CONTENTS. 

Social Desires, 163 

The Mission of Christ, 164 

Reveries, 165 

The Redeemed, 166 

The Last Lay, 168 

Scene in a Graveyard, 171 

Simplicity, 177 

Annie, 178 

Autumn Musings, 179 

Lizzy, 180 

Grove Worshippings, 181 

The Supremacy of God, ....... 183 

Luther, 186 

The Answered Prayer, 187 

Ecclesiastes, ix. 10., 189 

Song, 191 

The New Home, 191 

Rosabelle, 193 

To the Morning Wind, 194 

Voice to a Pilgrim, 195 

"Charlotte," 196 

The Retrospect, 197 

The Ferry, 200 

Memory's Picture-gallery, 201 

The Beggar's Death Scene, 203 

The Railroad Flower, 205 

Sounds of Summer, ........ 206 

Leila Grey, 207 

Udollo, 208 

The Lord de Beaumonaire, 213 

The Old Mill, 215 

The Church Bell, 217 

Visions, 218 

The Pervading God, .219 

St. Valentine's Eve, 220 

Eda, 223 

A Morning Landscape, 224 

Nora, 225 

Devotion, 228 

Contemplation, 229 

The Adventure, 229 

The Shadow Child, 232 



CONTENTS 


• 








yn 


TRANSLATIONS. 


The Revenge of the Flowers, 


. 234 


The Youth and the Mill Stream, 










236 


To the Estranged, 










. 238 


Spring's Oracle, or the Cuckoo, 










238 


Vineta, ..... 










239 


The Minstrel's Curse, 










240 


The Grave of the Persian Poet, . 










242 


The Tomb and the Rose, . 










244 


The Prisoner of War, 










244 


The Old Vagabond, . 










245 


The Wreath, 










247 


The Nun, 










248 


To Death, 










248 


To the Child of a Poet, 










250 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Annette Lee, 251 

The Martyr, . 259 

Eleonora, the Shakeress, 262 

The Rustic Wife, 287 

The Gossipings of Idle Hours, 304 

Hour First, 304 

Hour Second, 308 

Hour Third, 310 

Hour Fourth, 310 

Hour Fifth, 312 

Hour Sixth, 313 

Hour Seventh, 316 

Hour Eighth, 319 

Hour Ninth, 328 

Hour Tenth, 330 

Hour Eleventh, 332 

Hour Twelfth, 335 

Hour Thirteenth, 336 

Hour Fourteenth, 336 

Hour Fifteenth, 340 

Hour Sixteenth, . 343 

Hour Seventeenth, ....... 346 

Hour Eighteenth, 351 



Vm CONTENTS. 

Hour Nineteenth, 353 

Hour Twentieth, 355 

Hour Twenty-first, 357 

Debby Lincoln, ........ 359 

The Deformed Boy, .379 

Lydia Vernon, 393 

Esther, 410 



i 



E M 01 R. 



I HAVE been requested by many, whose opinion I respect 
highly, to write an account of the life of my departed com- 
panion. It is a work to which I am attracted, but from which 
I would gladly be relieved. With a chastened joy do I engage 
in it, for it leads me back into the past to an almost earthly 
intercourse with one who has done more for my soul than all 
others ; yet how can I transfer that image of quiet loveUness 
in my mind to pages for others to read, or fix in definite 
words those varying moods of thought and feeling, and the 
graceful blending of light and shadow which gave expression 
to her character ? It is almost sacrilegious to demand of us a 
minute description of those we love best ; for perfect affection 
calls out a thousand delicate emotions in the spirit of the 
beloved one, which a single critical glance scares away. The 
soul will not willingly sit for its portrait ; but punishes the 
artist, who would expose its beauties to the world, by giving 
him back a somewhat distorted expression of itself. 

This difficulty, which attends every attempt to describe 
human character, is greatly increased, in the present instance, 
by the want of striking events in the life of the subject of this 
memoir. Until the time of her marriage with me, she lived 
in the most quiet of country villages, and in a home atmos- 
phere of perfect peace. The last two years of her life were 
hardly an exception to this, for although brought more into 
daily contact with the world, she yet lived in her own house 
and the love of those nearest her. An imconquerable sensi- 
tiveness and diffidence prevented her from the complete expres- 
sion of herself in society ; so that many of those who saw her 



10 MEMOIR. 

every day, and loved her for what they saw, knew little of her 
inner life. Her character was built up year by year without 
violent outward experiences. The ordinary events of existence 
were incidents sufficiently powerful for the discipline of a spirit 
so apprehensive as hers. These, with the books she read, and 
her friends, complete the part of her life which turned earth- 
ward ; — the temporary scaffolding, within which arose a spir- 
itual temple, simple and beautiful in its proportions, wherein 
were always sounding hymns to the Father in heaven. 

No one can require me to do justice to the worth of such 
an one ; and this brief sketch is not written for the world's 
criticism. I will tell a few of the things I saw in her, and 
select from her correspondence a few characteristic passages. 
These, woven together, will form a picture which may suggest 
a few features of the original, to those who knew her. I do 
not pretend to estimate her nature ; — character cannot be 
estimated. The most worthless creature is greater and better 
than the critical eye can detect ; and virtue and beauty can 
be felt only by him who has opened his heart wide enough to 
feel their influence. I doubt not she had many imperfections, 
for she was human ; but with those we have nothing to do ; 
— it is by imitating the excellences of the good, not by avoid- 
ing their errors, that we reach heaven. I shall write of her 
out of my heart ; for the affections are the only faithful report- 
ers of the secrets of character. If the picture I present does 
not correspond to that in the mind of any one of her friends, 
he may use it as far as it is true for him ; — one may have 
seen things in her nature which were hidden from the other. 
If a stranger, who first learns from these pages that such a 
being existed, shall be attracted by anything in her example 
to the more excellent beauty of holiness, let him thank God 
that I have written. If it is nothing to him, let him not say 
it is worthless ; for there are spirits all the way from sin to 
holiness, and a word may be like a voice from heaven to one, 
which is inaudible to another. 

Sarah Carter Edgarton was bom in Shirley Village, Mid- 
dlesex Co., Mass., March 17, 1819. She was the tenth of a 
family of fifteen children, four of whom had died in infancy. 



MEMOIR. 11 

Her father was extensively engaged in manufacturing pursuits, 
and was a man of great generosity and simplicity of character, 
and universally prized by his townsmen for his strong judg- 
ment, no less than his liberality of sentiment and hospitable 
manners. His partner, a second wife and mother of eleven 
children, two of which died in infancy, was a woman of that 
unconscious worth which requires no praise. 

For many years after the birth of Sarah, the family lived 
together in a large mansion in the most beautiful part of the 
village. No situation could be more favorable, in many respects, 
to the development of her nature than this ; for although her 
native village was not free from the vices which always appear 
among a promiscuous manufacturing population, yet the atmos- 
phere of the household was a charm against moral infection. 
The character of the mother pervaded all its arrangements, 
and filled it with a quiet and unostentatious spirit of goodness, 
which preserved it untainted from the contagion around. 
Never have I seen a house in which that union, so happily 
styled, by a writer of our time, the " organic unity of the fam- 
ily," was so apparent. A perfect fusion of sentiment in a 
generous regard for each other, united with the strongest 
development of individual excellence, was there apparent. In 
this admirable school was she permitted to spend a great por- 
tion of her life ; for, until a recent period, the family circle has 
only widened by the marriage of its inmates ; — all the mar- 
ried sons and their families living near their father's house. 
To this providential domestic influence must we ascribe much 
of the spiritual beauty that, with advancing years, seemed 
rather to have accompanied, than to have been acquired by, 
the subject of our memoir. 

Another influence, to which can be traced much of the purity 
and grace of her character, was the fine natural scenery of her 
native place. We find constant allusions to it in her writings, 
and one who knew her deeply could not fail to detect it in the 
simplicity of her manners and the freshness of her conversa- 
tion. The village of Shirley is situated in a beautiful valley, 
bounded on two sides by hills, on a third by woods, rising 
gradually to a considerable elevation, and upon the fourth 



12 MEMOIR. 

open to an extensive plain which, again swelling upward, is 
lost in the high and fertile lands of Groton, Littleton, and Har- 
vard, It is not large, and, in spite of its railroad and half a 
dozen factories, the most quiet of country places. But at the 
time of which we write it was even more secluded than now, 
being situated about forty miles from Boston, and away from 
the larger roads by which the travelling public reached that 
city. Among the woods of which we have spoken are several 
large sheets of water, fed by unfailing springs, from which the 
brooks rise which are the source of wealth to the village, as 
well as a beautiful feature in its landscape. These all termi- 
nate at the upper extremity of the place in one beautiful 
stream. Bow Brook, which flows through the valley, and 
after forming several miU-ponds of considerable size, passes 
off through green meadows into the Nashua. The factories 
are picturesquely situated upon its banks, at intervals suffi- 
ciently distant. Upon the southern side an elevated street 
runs parallel with the brook, at one extremity leading away to 
a village of Shakers and the town of Harvard, and at the 
other branching off into several ways, now but little travelled, 
winding through the woods. Upon the northern side of the 
village, the road comes down from the central part of the town, 
between hills, and runs parallel with the brook out into the 
plain. A short street, descending the hill, and passing over a 
bridge, connects the two we have already named. Upon the 
former of these, not far from the place where it branches away 
into the woods, at the foot of the hill which forms the south- 
ern boundary of the village, and overlooking the most beau- 
tiful portion of Bow Brook, stands the family mansion. It is 
a plain country house, with a plat of grass before it. Behind 
is the bank, rapidly descending to the brook. Beyond is a 
cottage, at a later period occupied by the family, and the " old 
red mill" described in a poem in this volume. From the 
pond above, the water flows over a dam in a broad cascade, 
then forms a channel and runs down the valley, bordered in 
some places by alders, in others overshadowed by tall graceful 
elms, and spaimed by a long narrow bridge of rough timbers 
and boards. It dashes under this, then becomes calm and 



MEMOIR. 13 

widens again to another pond. The hill on the north over- 
hangs it. These hills, on the north and south of the village, 
are perhaps the most beautiful portions of the landscape. They 
rise gracefully, being dotted with apple trees, and green at the 
earliest time of vegetation. The whole valley, in summer, is 
a mass of foliage and grass and water, full of flowers and sing- 
ing birds, while the woods beyond, intersected by grass-grown 
paths and quiet roads, form an exquisite background. To the 
east the eye wanders out upon the plain, interspersed with 
pine woods, and rests at last upon the high hills rising with 
their cultivated sides up to the horizon. The dwellings are 
placed at moderate inten-als, surrounded with gardens in usual 
country style. The old church and school-house, at the east- 
ern extremity of the upper street, were then, beside the facto- 
ries, the most conspicuous buildings among them. 

Here was Sarah bom, and here she spent twenty-seven 
years of her life, surrounded by the loveliness of nature, and 
living in a social atmosphere of rare purity. The peace of 
the outer and inner world passed into her soul, and her life 
thus became a quiet development into successive stages of 
simple grace and goodness. 

Of her life till she was 17 years of age, I have been able to 
collect little that would be appropriate for a memoir. With 
but a few months' exception, she lived at home, engaged in the 
usual routine of school and domestic dflties. The cares of her 
father's numerous family furnished constant employment for 
her mother, her two elder sisters and herself; thus giving her 
the discipline of household duties, so essential to the complete- 
ness of the female character. She always retained her domes- 
tic habits, and felt that she owed much to them. I have often 
heard her say that her best thoughts and highest periods of 
religious enjoyment came to her while engaged in these em- 
ployments. 

In the description of her friends we recognize the same 
nature in childhood that afterwards shone out so beautifully in 
her womanhood. Her manners were shy, and her tempera- 
ment sensitive. She could not read aloud at school without 
shrinking at the sound of her own voice ; and on those awful 
2 



14 MEMOIR. 

times of trial for children, " examination-days," usually dis- 
appointed the teacher and " committee," by failing in the 
midst of a sentence, and sitting down in tears. Her diffidence 
in society was extreme, and she was so sensitive to the appro- 
bation of those she loved, that, while a mere child, the slightest 
rebuke would distress her for a whole day. Indeed, till the 
day of her death, an unkind word or suspicion always made 
her miserable, though it could not change her deliberate moral 
convictions. Beneath this yielding exterior lay concealed a 
strength of will adequate to any emergency ; and many a duty, 
which more confident natures would cheerfully perform in the 
face of opposition, was done by her firmly, but with all the 
spiritual agonies of martyrdom. Thus, unfitted in her child- 
hood for gay companions or noisy amusements, she clung to 
the few she knew and best loved for protection. Most of her 
time was passed with her mother and sisters ; for she shrunk 
instinctively from the rudeness of many of her school-mates, 
and had at no time more than one or two familiar friends 
among them. 

Yet this diffidence only revealed more beautifully the sweet- 
ness of her temper, being one of the surest indications of a 
superior nature. She was universally beloved in the village, 
and many whom she feared the most, loved her the best. Her 
excellence was acknowledged without hesitation and without 
jealousy. She was the best scholar at school, although her 
heart always failed her when required to exhibit her acquisi- 
tions. Geography and the natural sciences were her favorite 
studies, and among these she was most interested by Astron- 
omy and Botany. She also read poetry with great taste and 
feeling. 

As she grew up, a love for nature grew with her. She had 
a passionate fondness for flowers and animals of all kinds, and 
the earliest verses I have seen of hers were addressed to a 
favorite dog. She was a part of nature, rather than an admirer 
of it, and her spirit was bright or shadowy as the landscape 
about her varied in expression. Indeed, nature always ad- 
dressed itself more to her inner than outer sense ; — the surest 
indication that she possessed the poetic faculty. The man of 



MEMOIR. 15 

taste can admire the glories of creation, but he stands outside 
the show ; — the poet lives within nature, and feels through 
his whole being the throbbing of her great heart, and looks 
out from thence upon the world and humanity. 

Her love for a quiet life was of course developed with these 
faculties; The quarrels of her companions disturbed her, 
though she had little courage to assume the office of peace- 
maker, and the least confusion drove her to the shelter of the 
domestic circle or to her own thoughts. 

Her education was such as she could obtain from the district 
school of the village. This, with the exception of one term 
of fourteen weeks spent at an academy in Westford, comprised 
all her outward advantages. But a nature like hers could not 
rest unemployed. Ever}' book in her father's library was read 
and re-read, and the neighbors' shelves laid under contribution 
to satisfy the increasing appetite. The volume that, more 
than any other, formed her taste, was a large collection of 
poetry, with the title of " Elegant Extracts." This she read 
incessantly, and almost learned by heart. Her first attempts 
at poetical composition were acrostics, written when about 12 
years of age, for the amusement of her school companions, 
and simple descriptions of nature. The latter were studiously 
concealed, and only came to light by accident. 

As she approached the age of 17 her religious feelings be- 
came more prominently developed by her interest in the opin- 
ions she always afterwards advocated. Her nature was too 
essentially religious to show itself in any sickly manifestation 
of infant piety. She worshipped as a child only can worship ; 
by reverence for superiors, love and kindness for companions, 
and a joyous sense of the beauty of the outward creation. 
Had she not lived in a time of controversy this state of beau- 
tiful unconscious piety would never have been disturbed ; for 
Religion was with her preeminently a matter of feeling, and 
Theology always hateful to her. The instincts of her own 
heart would have guided her to the highest interpretation of 
Christianity. Yet circumstances called out a full expression 
of religious opinion. She was affected by the general interest 
in the discussion, then raging about her, between the defenders 



16 WEMOlR. 

of Calvinism and a more liberal faith. Her father's family 
were believers in the doctrine of the Universal Salvation of 
mankind, and the house the frequent resort of the ministers 
of that faith. She could not fail to be attracted by this aspect 
of Christianity. Her own soul had already taught her that 
" God is love," and affections so disinterested as hers could 
never rise in adoration to a Being who would sacrifice half 
his creatures to appease an infinite wrath ; — even though 
such wrath were dignified with the name of Divine Justice, 
and such a Being exalted to the highest place in the universe 
and called God! She at once recognized, in the central prin- 
ciple of the Universalist faith, the great truth of Christianity ; 
and with her Bible for a teacher, and her heart for a commen- 
tary, attained, at an early age, that beautiful religious trust 
which deepened and widened every succeeding year of her 
life. She never loved doctrinal disputation, knowing how 
fruitless are its usual results ; and, though desirous that aU 
should know the truth, never attempted to make a proselyte. 
There was a total absence of fanaticism, even in this early 
stage of her religious life ; and the beauty of that confiding 
character, as it expanded into the active sphere of womanhood, 
in which no duty was neglected and no possible act of benev- 
olence avoided, is a refutation, more powerful than theological 
libraries, to the remark, which is yet repeated, that a firm 
belief in God's saving purpose disqualifies for the practice of 
the moral virtues. Such a remark cannot be reasoned against, 
for he who makes it only proves that he knows nothing of the 
spirit of Christianity, and the highest motives of duty ; — and 
the friends of this faith will always act wisely if they leave 
such opponents to the enjoyment of their own wretched logic, 
and endeavor, by lives of purity and disinterestedness, to show 
the spiritual resources of their inspiring belief. This did the 
subject of our memoir. If she ever wrote a controversial line 
she sincerely regretted it, and felt that it was a descent from 
the high ground of her faith, though her writings overflow 
with expressions of the spirit of her cherished doctrine. 

I win say no more of this period of her life, for although the 
most important epoch in the existence of every human being, 



MEMOIR. 17 

it is that of which we always know the least. Expression 
comes with approaching manhood and womanhood, and long 
before this the character has been silently formed by the action 
of hidden internal forces. Her youthful experience was that 
of every superior nature, though the struggle was not so great 
by which she came up to peace as in many spirits of more 
decided intellectual conformation. With advancing years she 
had little to unlearn. Her childhood was simple and affec- 
tionate ; the influences about her healthy, though destitute 
of artificial grace ; and her poetic energy sharpened all her 
faculties, and preserved her sincere and free from the forced 
restraints and sentimental foolishness of maidenhood. 

I now come to a period of her life more interesting and 
active, and in which she appears in new relations. At the 
age of 16 she began to write for publication. Her circle of 
friends also rapidly increased, and more of her time was passed 
away from home than before. Of course, with this came 
increased facilities for study and the reading of good authors ; 
and, what she prized above all, frequent opportunities of enjoy- 
ing religious privileges superior to those her own village 
afforded. It will be readily understood that she rapidly im- 
proved under such advantages. The succeeding eight years 
of her life transformed her from a timid girl to a self-possessed 
and accomplished woman, attracting all within the sphere of 
her influence by the charms of a character, in which gentle- 
ness and firmness, poetic sensibility and practical sense, the 
most profound religious sentiment and graceful manners, were 
blended in an unusual degree. 

I fear I shall fail in my representation of this portion of her 
life. My acquaintance with her did not commence till the 
early part of the year 1842, and was then wholly internipted 
till the winter of 1843 and '44. Therefore, the events of this 
period I have been obliged to collect entirely from her corre- 
spondence, and the recollections of her friends. These mate- 
rials have been generously furnished me, but are quite frag- 
mentary, and require a central point, such as in her subsequent 
history my own memory will supply, about which to be 
arranged. Yet it is not perhaps very difficult to catch the 
2* 



18 MEMOIR. 

Spirit of her life, even from these imperfect materials. Her 
nature was so simple, intense, and continuous in its progress, 
that it is deeply impressed upon all she did or wrote. From 
the resources at my disposal I shall select, for the illustration 
of this period, such events and passages from her correspon- 
dence as seem to me to best indicate her mental and moral 
tendencies ; though occasionally at the expense of continuity 
in the narrative. 

The earliest traces of her pen I find in the pages of the 
" Universalist and Ladies' Repository," Sept., 1836, although 
I have an impression that she had written short essays and 
poems before for some denominational publication. The little 
sketch of " Annette Lee," however, is one of her earliest con- 
tributions. This was followed by other articles in poetry and 
prose, chiefly published in the " Repository," which were so 
favorably received by the readers of this magazine, that we 
find in the succeeding volume, 1837 and '38, her name occur- 
ring as a regular contributor. She also wrote articles for the 
other religious papers of her own order. 

These little essays, tales, and poems, of course, are full of 
those imperfections from which no youthful writer can expect 
to be free ; but they are valuable to her friends as giving a 
vivid picture of her feelings at this time. Her earliest pro- 
ductions have the merit of gemii?ieness. Though often too 
luxuriant in expression, the sentiment is always pure and 
healthful, and appropriate to the age of the Avriter. The 
themes are commonly religion and love ; but with a predomi- 
nance of the former. In these, her peculiar faith shines out 
too strongly to be mistaken, though divested of all the repul- 
sive features of a controversial spirit. Her heart was bursting 
with the inspiring truth, " God is love," and her pen could not 
be withholden from the expression of her joy. A condition 
of spiritual exaltation which would be unhealthy, even dan- 
gerous, to minds differently constituted, was her natural state 
at this period of her life. It did not become religious senti- 
mentalism, for it not only existed in her thoughts, but con- 
stantly flowed out into her every-day life. Her tales of love 
are full of the same .spirit, and in them the human affections 



I 



M£MOm. 19 

are never divorced from that union with the highest religious 
sentiment, which gives them their greatest depth and attrac- 
tion. 

Thus her early productions can be read with due apprecia- 
tion only by one who knew her, or who regards them as a 
faint expression of an overpowering religious emotion, strug- 
gling every way, by life, and speech, and written word, to gain 
utterance. Of these I have selected a few for the present vol- 
ume ; but most of them will be found in the pages of the 
Ladies' Repository, beginning with volume five. Two of her 
little books, " The Palfreys" and "Ellen Clifford," tales for 
children, belong to this period. Two additional volumes were 
also collected, in 1840 and '41, from her magazine prose arti- 
cles, under the titles of " Spring Flowers," and " The Poetry 
of Woman." Of these the latter is the most valuable. The 
literary merit of these works consists principally in passages 
descriptive of the affections, and the sincerity which pervades 
them. They mark a gradually elevated standard of taste, but 
must be read in the same relations to her spiritual condition 
which we have mentioned above. Her contributions to the 
literature of her denomination were very numerous. She 
wrote much more than her own judgment would dictate, and 
necessarily with great rapidity. The reasons for this were, 
the constant necessity laid upon her for expression in this 
manner, by the want of congenial society ; a warm interest in 
the religious welfare of her own sex, which made her feel that 
her efforts, however feeble, should not be withholden; the 
solicitations of her friends, and a total absence of literary am- 
bition. To these may be added a laudable desire to render 
herself independent of her parents in pecuniary respects, 
whom the burden of a large family and a series of misfortunes 
had placed in somewhat reduced circumstances; and, later, 
the wish to educate a brother, which she accomplished solely 
by her own exertions. Her letters are full of passages show- 
ing her o\vn too humble estimate of her productions, proving 
that the woman was never lost in the authoress, and that it 
was rather to the absence of some one competent to direct, 
and the haste of constant publication, than to a deficiency 



20' MEMOIR. 

in taste, that faults were permitted to remain in her best pro- 
ductions. 

Not the least advantage she derived from her appearance 
before the public, was the opportunity of increasing the num- 
ber of her friends, and mingling oftener in congenial society. 
Her desire to be loved was a part of her nature, and would 
have compelled her to require sympathy under any circum- 
stances. Now she was enabled to gain friends for her mind 
and heart, in whose society and correspondence, in connection 
with the circle at home, the great happiness of her life consisted. 
The beauty of her character was apparent in these relations 
as nowhere else. Full of confidence in the sincerity of others, 
disinterested even to absolute self-forge tfulness, she was at 
once the most unreserved and devoted of friends. Her love 
was easily won, and not easily lost. Her correspondence 
during these years is a beautiful picture of a life quietly spent 
in literary and domestic duties, and cheered by the affection 
of a constantly increasing circle of esteemed acquaintances. 
Of such a number, equally beloved, it is hardly possible to 
particularize ; but we may mention the names of the Rev. H. 
Bacon and wife, Mrs. L. J. B. Case, Mrs. J. H. Scott, Rev. 
Mr. and Mrs. T. J. Sawyer, Miss L. M. Barker, Rev. J. G. 
Adams and wife. Miss S. E. Starr, A. Tompkins and family, 
Rev. A. C. Thomas, and Rev, T. B. Thayer. Others were 
not less esteemed, though, from the distance of their places of 
residence, she did not knoAV them with that intimacy which 
could entirely wear away her constitutional diffidence. Sev- 
eral years later, a most precious addition was made to this 
number, in the person of Mrs. C. A. Jerauld. 

In giving selections from her correspondence with these 
friends, I regret that I have been able to present so little, com- 
pared with the large number of letters she wrote. 

Her epistles are all beautifully characteristic, and could 
they be presented in their natural order, would, in connection 
with her writings, give a complete picture of her mind and 
heart. But this cannot be done ; for most of them are too 
exclusively personal to be admitted into a memoir. I have 
chosen such passages as appear to me to best illustrate her 



MEMOIR. 21 

life, while details concerning other persons have been gener- 
ally excluded. The few events in her outward history during 
this period I shall briefly indicate in connection with these 
extracts. 

In Feb., 1839, she writes to her publisher : — 

" I have written as far as three cliapters in a second book, which, 
if possible, I intend to finish in March. It will be somewhat longer 
than ' The Palfreys,' unless, like the starving poet, I am obliged to 
kill my hero, because I cannot afford longer to keep him — as a man 
kills his ox. Some persons have lamented to me that I did not con- 
tinue the story of 'The Palfreys,' and, as you suggest, marry my 
young heroines to good husbands, which, however scarce they may 
be in actual life, are as plenty as blackberries in a young lady's fancy. 
But it was my opinion, at the time I wrote that work, that, as it was 
intended for children, its interest should be created by those simple 
and gentle affections that belong to childhood. Love does not have 
that control over children minor their teens that it does over ' children 
of a larger growth ;' and they better comprehend a delineation of the 
sentiments that exist in their hearts now, than of those latent passions 
of their nature that are waiting for their call in quiet unconsciousness. 
I think, therefore, that it will not be expedient to write a sequel to 
' The Palfreys,' but leave it for the imagination of its readers to make 
a sequel of their own. In my next work, however, which is intended 
for young gentlemen and ladies — not chUdren — I will weave in a 
link of love, to make it the more interesting." 

The sequel, however, as we have seen, was written in 
" Ellen Clifford." 

Her love for the study of the natural sciences constantly 
increased, especially for Botany. In a letter to Rev. H. Ba- 
con, Aug., 1838, she thus writes : — 

" Tell E A if there is a single flower anywhere in the 

precincts of the parsonage, to pluck it, and press it in a book very care- 
fully for her sister Sarah. I preserved the sea-weed she gave me, from 
Medford Lake, and it is very beautiful. Can there be any monitor more 
touchingly expressive than a faded flower — one that some dear hand 
has gathered and presented as a delicate token of love ^ How many, 
many such little relics have I preserved, and even the fragrance of 
their decay is sweeter than the freshness of life from those less cher- 
ished. I hope our wild flowers will not have all decayed ere you are 
with us. 



22 MEMOIR. 

• Our own dear wild flower ever loved 
The other wild flowers best,' 

says a poetess of her buried sister. So do I. There is an humble, 
retiring, uncultivated beauty in them, that is infinitely more touching 
than that which everybody sees and everybody praises in the brilliant 
daughters of the garden." 

In the same year commenced her correspondence with Mrs. 
J. H. Scott. The friendship of this estimable woman was a 
source of the deepest enjoyment to her. Their letters are full 
of the most touching expressions of mutual confidence and 
appreciation. The following extract, written before they had 
met, is from the earliest of the series : — 

" What pleasurable emotions did I experience, on my return from 
a six weeks' rambling, to find awaiting me a most affectionate epistle 
from my beloved friend in Towanda ! I felt as though I could reach 
forth my arms to clasp her to my heart ; and could I only press out 
all sorrows that ever make her heart feel lonely or depressed ! I have 
often yearned for some ie-w words of affection and encouragement from 
my elder and more experienced sisters, when doubts, and misgivings, 
and irresolution have made me falter. I have felt what a strength 
and support their approbation would afford ; but diffidence, natural to 
one so young and secluded as myself, has long made me hesitate 
about introducing myself to their notice. I have, in this case, only 
to regret that I hesitated so long. 

" Your letter, dear Julia, (I love that name,) while it afforded me the 
deepest joy, awakened at the same time emotions of painful sympa- 
thy. It is most painful to me to learn that the spirit is depressed and 
that its embodiment is weak — that your lot is to suffer, to endure, 
to weep, and to pray. My prayers shall be for your recovery to 
health and to happiness ; and on these prayers may God yield his 
blessing. While I have health and friends, and a strong heart, I 
humbly beg my Father that he will make me grateful ; and as for 
poverty, I have ever considered it a most blessed evil. Wealth 
would bring me indolence. I am one of that foolish kind who would 
love to lie all day under a green tree and dream Utopian dreams ; but 
He who made me has work for me to perform, and I will perform it 
with gladness, knowing that it is for my own benefit I labor. I wish 
I could be with you a while ; it seems as if I should love you so that 
you would be happy ; and I, who am sunny nineteen, am just in that 
season of life when to live is to be full of gladness. I have often 
thought that grief and sorrow would chasten, and humble, and renew 



MEMOIR. 23 

me ; but what grief could I specify from which I should not shrink, 
and plead for exemption ? A sharp steel and a bitter potion are in 
the hands of the physician, but their effect is ever salutary — and His 
will be done." 

That she had not studied the spirit of Christ's religion in vain 
may be inferred from the following touching letter, written to 
a friend upon the loss of his wife — also one of her earliest 
and dearest acquaintances : — 

" There is nothing in this wide world I so much covet — nothing 
for which I would so readily exchange the most vigorous powers of 
my intellect, as the successful ministration of comfort to the bereaved. 
There is nothing so beautiful, nothing so glorious, in the life and 
character of our Saviour, as the delicate and soothing power which 
he exerted to reillumine hope and faith in the bosoms of the sorrowing. 
I feel at this moment what a holy joy that power of doing good must 
have constantly afforded him. When he stood with the weeping sis- 
ters at the grave of the beloved Lazarus, he, too, wept. Be assured, 
my brother, that this tribute of my sympathy is not denied to you. 
My whole heart is with you — its prayers, its tears, and, oh, still 
more than these, its earnest and sacred hopes. Much, very much, 
do I hope for you, my mourning brother. The night looks very dark 
and very drear to you now, but keep your spirit's gaze fixed upon the 
heavens, for there is a glorious Star heralding a holier and brighter 
day which leadeth to no night-time forevermore. The time is short 
for us to linger here — it may be but a moment. And we shall all 
of us be the happier to go, now that loved ones have preceded us. 
Let us strive to think of them calmly, even though sadly, as having 
gone to rest a few years before us. We must go to them soon — we 
wish to go to them soon ; for what is there in the cares, or even the 
pleasures of life, that would keep us long from the eternal Home of 
Love ? 

" My heart sunk within me when I received your letter, informing 

mc of the dangerous situation of our dear L , and many and very 

fervent were the petitions that went up from my innermost soul for 
her and for you. And need we doubt tliat our heavenly Father heard 
them 1 But oh ! He is wiser and better than L He loved you both 
with a more perfect love than is possible with me, and knew that it 
was for the good of us all, that his gentle child should be removed 
from us. Let us, my dear brother, ask Him not ichi/, but lean our 
heads on his bosom, and trust as in a faithful and tender Father, be- 
lieving in our very souls that ' these light afflictions, which are but for 



24 MEMOIR. 

a moment, are working out for us a far more exceeding and eternal 
weight of glory.' 

" I feel that I too need some sympathy, for have I not lost a very 
kind and faithful friend 1 She was very dear to me, and long will 
the memory of the pleasant hours I have spent with her in the most 
perfect intercourse of confiding friendship, linger in my heart, like 
some marked spots kept ever green by the waters of love. I little 

thought, dear L , that my next meeting with thee would be in 

heaven ! But if the separation be long, oh, joyous indeed will be 
the meeting!" 

And to another friend, writing of the same person, she 
says : — 

"Poor Mrs. ! — no, I need not say that — dear Mrs. ! 

she has left us to join truer and better friends ; may we not lament 
our loss ! Yet I am happy that I have known her, even though our 
acquaintance was but for the space of little more than a year. I have 
had one more proof of the excellence of human nature ; she was an 
honor to it and to her sex, for she was pure and amiable. I feel for 

Br. deeply, painfully. The light of his life has gone out, yet 

he is not in utter darkness; there is a star left to guide him — he 
will follow that. The same day that you put on your bridal robes, 

dear M , our beloved L put on her shroud ! I would not 

make you sad, but oh ! can I fail to write this lesson on the inner 
tablets of my heart? So do joy and sorrow go hand in hand through 
our earth ; smiles are but channels for tears ; the seal of love bears 
the device of cross-bones, and the motto. Death. But it will not 
be ever thus — there is a blessed home where we can say, ' We part 
no more forever ! ' I sometimes think I would enter that home be- 
fore I have yielded myself to stronger ties than have yet bound me. 
But come my hour when it may, it will bring no pang save the 
thought that others will weep too bitterly for me. I would not have 
others suifer for me what I have suffered in the loss of those I love." 

The following, written at this time, contains a characteris- 
tic portrait of its author's heart : — 

" I am advancing steadily, though rather slowly, in my work — 
sometimes get a little weary and discouraged — who does not ? — and 
then there is some kind ministry sent me from the Guardian of my 
happiness, and I am recruited to toil on again in the way of my 
earthly mission ; fearful and trembling, it is true, but nerved with 
hope and faith, and cheered on by precious tokens of encouragement 
from those I trust and love. I have little ambition for myself, other 



MEMOIR. 25 

than to perform, as faithfully as I know, the duties required of me as 
a Christian woman, and to make the worthiest consecration of the 
gifts my Father has entrusted to my use. Othere are ambitious for 
me ; they would lead me to higher places in this world's honors than 
I have ever trod before ; would that they might be nearer unto 
heaven ! Angels in elder times came down to earth ; would that 
mortals in later days might go up to heaven ! A nd may they not — 
and do they not sometimes 1 We have some beings in our world who 
seem indeed to walk with God — so pure and holy, that we gaze upon 
them and love them as if they were visitants from the ' Father-land.' 
O, that there were no downward gradation, no descending scale! 
Yet, unholy as the world is, I love it ; I am disposed to cast abroad 
many affections upon the things of this earth. Phrenologists would 
give me very large ' adhesiveness. ' Perhaps I can say what few can 
— I have never yet found a false friend — I never have known what it 
is to have an enemy. The world has been unto me good and kind. 
I have never been tried as my Master was, for he came and taught 
the doctrine of love. A blessed doctrine was that. It hath conquered 
enmity — it hath overcome malice — it worketh yet amid their ruins ! 
Do not say I am a dull preacher — I seldom indulge in homiletics — 
but once in a while, under the influence of the prosing impulse, I 
fall into sentiment, and forget to extricate myself. ***** 
" Perhaps I am too familiar — but why should I be ' starched up' 
with odious ceremony in addressing my brother ? Why not indulge 
in the pleasant familiarities that belong to sisterly affection? Were 
I to be fettered now in chains of prudery, believe me, it would be the 
first time in all my life. Universalists are the last people in Christen- 
dom to be made cold-hearted by the fonnalities of custom, fashion, 
and propriety. I had rather be a nun, shut out from the sympathies 
of the world, than to mingle with my fellow-beings, and not have my 
heart free to utter its affections. It is so sweet to speak what one 
feels, and know that another feels it too — to utter the glad impulses 
of a warm heart, and meet no chilling repulse from the eyes of old 
duennas — to be free, familiar, social. I know you approve of a 
spirit like this. I am confident I shall always maintain it among 
those who understand me ; for I was born in the country, in the 
shadow of the wings of Liberty, where there are no walls to shut 
in the buoyant heart; no tyrant, like Fashion, to put gilded fetters 
upon unresisting slaves ; no servile bowing of the knee to Ceremony ; 
no particular measure for the humility of a bow ; no prescribed into- 
nation of the voice ; nothing fettered in the heart ; nothing regu- 
lated in the manners ! Here all is free ; and I among the a//." 
3 



26 MEMOIR. 

To her friends Mr. and Mrs. Bacon she writes much this 
year. From these letters we extract the following passages 
expressive of various moods : — 

" A happy, happy new year be thine ! Who more richly deserves 
happiness — who more likely to receive if? Oh, my sweet sister, 
could the warm wishes of my heart be realized, never would a shadow 
dim your pathway, never would a thorn lurk beneath the rose-buds 
that border it along towards ' the valley of the shadow of death,' 
into which you and I must enter ; but, blessed be God ! leaning on 
the arm of One who hath travelled through it unharmed, and will 
lead us as safely — would I could say, as confidently — as he has trod ! 
The past year has been a happy one to me ; I think I may say the 
happiest one of my life. In it, I can date the commencement of 
those blessed friendships that can never cease to be the sunshine of 
my existence. I cannot look back, without a sigh, (though I am not 
wont to be sad,) upon the pleasures that have been borne away on 
the wings of Time, perhaps never to be renewed. 

" Yet the new year is full of hope. I have entered upon it with a 
light heart — and should its dear, dear dreams be fated to pass away 
like morning shadows, may I learn to ' hang all my golden hopes 
upon His arm,' and carry my vision forward to a delightful home in 
heaven. I have been looking back upon the vanished year, and 
recounting the hopes that have blossomed, and the hopes that have 
been blighted in the bud. How glorious have the many spread their 
bright leaflets to the light of earthly joy, expanded, and fallen away, 
only to leave the golden fruitage hanging upon my heart, sweet as 
the honey of love ! And what if a few have drooped away like idle 
things, though they were dear? Is there not another year at hand, 
that may renew them with even brighter promise, and more propi- 
tious fate 1 ' Hope springs eternal in the human breast,' and though 
the poet denies it, 'man,' and woman too, ' is' sometimes ' blest!' 
Excuse my moralizing strain. It is the privilege of New Year's day 
to be sentimental ; even wise and good men recommend it as a suit- 
able season to reflect upon the past, and meditate plans for the future. 
I have but one general plan, and that is, to live more worthy of my 
blessings than in years that are gone — to become holier, wiser, bet- 
ter, and, therefore, happier." 

" How they pass away — the young and good ! Oh, is it not ' a 
fearful thing to love what death may touch?' Let us, dear friend, 
place our hearts on the better home above, and make not our happi- 
ness too much on earth. It is hard, ah very hard, to keep the heart 
from idolatries. Is it not a crime to love too well ? I sometimes fear 



MEMOIR. 27 

that I am guilty of bestowing too much on beings of earth, and that 
the penalty must be paid in scattering the dust of my heart upon their 
tombs. Have you never feared 1 I must, I will strive to lay the 
foundation of no lasting happiness here. I will love but for another 
and a better world. I will but choose here the loves for eternity ! 
How hard to abide by this determination ! And yet, I never build in 
my fancy any dreams of the future, where I hope even for days ' to 
rest in my love.' No, heaven is the home of my love and of my 
union. The Resurrection must be my bridal day, when I will be 
wedded to some pure spirit, not as in earthly marriages, but like unto 
the angels of heaven. Have you never thought of this 1 Aye, 
even you are not perfectly wedded here — you only can find the per- 
fect union of your perfect nature in a land where earthly passion 
never intrudes. Is it not sweet to think of such a time, when the 
soul will be blended with the one spirit of its love, in a union so per- 
fect that individuality itself will be lost in the all-perfect welding of 
angelic natures? I dream and think of it much ; I love to make 
it the holy joy of my lonely and silent hours ; I love to make it the 
sweeter portion of my darling faith — to write it on my heart as a 
talisman to keep it pure on earth, till it be utterly purified in 
heaven." 

" 'Beware' is a very good monitor, and rest assured that I shall 
pay all proper heed to it. Do not apprehend any danger to me — 
I grow strong every day. But I must place 'implicit trust' in those 
I love — I cannot help it. To doubt, with me, is to dislike. The 
safe way, with those we trust so confidently, is, to understand them. 
Fond hearts are sometimes allied to weak minds, that cannot discrim- 
inate between expressions of friendship and admiration, and those of 
a tenderer and more delicate sentiment. I think I can do so ; but if 
I am deceived, the fault and its consequences will be my own. * * 

" So many letters to write — three pages interlined to nearly all — 
visitors to attend to, of whom we have had not a few — calls upon 
the villagers — work for our large family — editorials to pick up — 
books to read — berries to cull — walks to take — flowers to examine 
— astronomy to attend to — Sabbath school and Bible class, etc., 
etc. — all these things have kept my mind in a constant excitement. 
Now I mean to be calm and think — reflect upon things a little . The 
danger will be, I shall be assailed by my inveterate habit of dream- 
ing. Do you know of any specific ? Were you ever thus troubled ? 

****** Tell E I rise about seven o'clock — eat breakfast, 

wipe dishes, sweep, make bed, sometimes churn, wash and iron — 
make toilet, then cloister myself in the study till dinner ; when this 
is despatched, and the dishes are again in the cupboard I return to 



28 BIEMOIR. 

books and pen, and leave them not till night. Were she to look in 
occasionally, she would see tne sitting in my arm-chair, with a sheet 
before me, a happy countenance — sometimes frowning for a thought 
— a pile of books on the table in front, work-basket, unanswered let- 
ters, a dish of berries, flowers, scraps of poetry, etc. etc., all in fine dis- 
order. Sometimes sisters come in , and we enjoy a fine laugh together. 
Sometimes she might see me thoughtful, and perhaps sometimes in 
tears. I have things to make me weep — but it is for others, not 
myself, save when I am yearning for absent friends, of whom none 
is dearer than her own dear self. Some of my letters make me weep, 
for some of them are very sad. The clock strikes twelve — a warn- 
ing to close." 

" I believe I have not yet half answered your kind letter of Aug. 
13th. You say some good things about romance and reason — a 
very pretty alliteration, by the way. Perhaps you deem that in the 
indulgence of the former, I throw the latter to the winds. It may be 
so ; yet if it be, it is no longer properly romance, but idle folly, since 
romance, in the true acceptation of the term, is but the unsealing of the 
tenderest affections of the heart by the acute touch of the finest and 
most divine perceptions of the intellect. It is the union of the most 
refined capacities of the mind and heart. Romance is to reason, what 
the spirit is to its embodiment — giving it life, sensibihty and grace ; 
and therefore, the stronger and more vigorous the reason, the healthier 
will be the action, and the more powerful wOl be the developments of 

the spirit that refines it. You love romance, Br. , or else you would 

not love E A and me — (by the way, I would not be under- 
stood as meaning there is not an infinite difference in the degrees of 
affection bestowed upon us) — for that we are both romantic needs no 
other proof than that in a few weeks' intercourse we have formed a 
friendship that is only second to any attachment of which our hearts 
are capable. And is it foolish 1 Not unless all Heaven's operations 
in the heart are so. Love is with me a sudden emotion, and in almost 
every instance a lasting one. It is very difficult for me to subdue 
attachments, even when the objects are proved unworthy. I love at 
once, and I love forever — oftentimes when even I am ashamed to 
acknowledge how much, and how fondly. If I am at any moment 
led to speak reproachfully of those dear to me, the next moment I 
reproach myself a thousand times more bitterly. The general oper- 
ations of my affections can be embraced in one sentence : I love at 
once, I trust implicitly, and, if deceived, live on in the love of the 
ideal which once I believed a reality. Where the revelations of the 
spirit are beautiful, I must love. If I meet with sympathy from hearts 
that are susceptible to every touch of divinity abroad in this glo- 



MEMOIR. 29 

rious world, how can 1 repay them, but by earnest and undoubting 
affection 1 If my confidence and trust be to them a blessing, for which 
they thank me with ardent gratitude — if they cherish it as a thing 
sacred, and win it by the sweet requital of their own, how can I do 
otherwise than continue it, and increase it tenfold ? **##*#* 
You say, in your letter, ' Do not dream too fondly.' Thank you, 
dear brother — the advice is good, and I will follow it. I have no 
dreams for the future — none, I mean, that I cannot submit to see dis- 
pelled without sincere regrets. All I hope for in the coming years is, 
that I may fulfil the duty I owe to heaven and earth, and find my 
reward in the love of God, and the friendship and affection of the 
good and wise among mankind. When any more definite and fond 
pass before me too near my heart, faith gently draws her veil before 
them, and points my hopes to the will of God. Oh ! is not that a 
thousand times more blessed than any dreams the human heart can 
devise? ' Thy will, O God, be done ! ' " 

" What a blessed and holy thought it is that our heavenly Father 
has given us the power to do good to those we love ! Oh, I have 
adored him more for this one gift than for all others that can be named 
— simply to feel that I may pray for them — that I may go into his 
presence, where he dwells alone, and plead with him, devoutly and 
tearfully, to bless, and sanctify, and save the loved ones of my soul — 
simply to feel this is all of heaven to me. Often, of late, has my spirit 
dwelt with His in deep communion for you, sweet sister ; and I love 
to think — O, may He pardon me if I be presumptive ! — I love to 
think that my prayers are answered in the safety and happiness of 
those dear to me. ***** I think, if we would only stop to count 
our wealth instead of forever craving more — if we would study our 
sources of happiness, and make ourselves acquainted with the true 
amount of enjoyment in our possession, we should find ourselves 
richer far than we are wont to believe. So much to minister to our 
intellect, so much to gratify our affections ! How foolish, how sinful, 
to be always repining, and asking for what we cannot have ! I do not 
know who has most to be thankful for, you or I ; but this I do know, 
that we are both exceedingly rich. We are rich because we love and 
are beloved ; what more do we ask ? ***** You know some- 
thing of the depth of my affections — you know how much they can 
bless me, and how much they can make me suffer. But I would not 
part with them for three times their worth in intellect. It is so sweet 
to love — to be always loving — to feel so much — to have your heart 
trembling for hours together with the mere consciousness of ardent 
affection toward something — I care not what, so it only excite love. 
3* 



30 MEMOIR. 

* * * * I am extremely well, and very happy. Nothing but 
sunshine is around me, now. I am always happy when at home. 
There is a spirit of love and joy that guards this dear spot, which 
defies all evil intrusions. If tears ever come, there is a voice of affec- 
tion, speaking in many familiar tones, that speedily drives them away. 
But they do not come now. When I weep, it is for others, not for 
myself. For you and yours I pray ; Heaven keep and bless you all !" 

" Dear , my heart is full, to-night, and you must suffer me 

to scribble on as incoherently as I please. You know my peculiar 
capacities for feeling ; you know I have times of overburdened sensi- 
bilities — times when my soul will gush out, or burst with its own 
fulness. These feelings are partly the effect of acute poetic suscep- 
tibilities, and partly the impulse of ardent affections. I sometimes 
tremble with the excitement of my own wild, rapturous dreams, and 
talk and write as though realities had made me thus to suffer or enjoy. 
I fancy things, and feel them true. Such is the condition of my mind 
this evening. I imagine myself entirely and unchangeably happy ; 
so very deep is the emotion of joy within me, that I feel bewildered 
and oppressed ; yet there is no outward circumstance to affect me thus. 
I sit at the fireside, as usual, with my sisters around me ; the fire is 
bright, and the faces are cheerful. I, too, seem cheerful ; but deep, 
down in my innermost being, there is a universe of joy, that cannot 
be described, — a something, that trembles and flutters within my 
secret soul, and urges it up to love and earnest prayer, to praises and 
thanksgivings, and glorious alleluias ! I am capable of emotions as 
intensely blissful as they are at times agonizing ; but I can conceal my 
joys more successfully than my griefs. ***** My dreams, 
my hopes, my plans, are all transformed. Mysterious influences have 
been invisibly working within me, and I am holier and happier within, 
than I have been for years, — happier, at least, than in any previous 
period of my existence. Yet the change is all spiritual and unseen. 
No future time will reveal it ; the world can never know it. It is not 
a change of circumstances — it is feeling alone — it is the mind, the 
heart, the inner being. ***** I love that you should know 
that I am happy, and principally for this reason have I written as I 
have. I am living in romance — romance of the most sacred beauty. 
Not a shadow comes near it, not a thorn is mingled with its roses, 
not a murmur of its sweet low melody is in discord. A spiritual 
heaven is my own, to dwell in forever. All that you can dream of 
in your philosophy of pure celestial happiness is mine — all mine. 
No fear of any change is mingled with the deep still fovgitains of my 
joy." 



MEMOIR. 31 

This year she was invited to edit an annual, to be composed 
of literary and religious articles, from the best of her denomi- 
national writers. This she undertook with a reluctance which 
nothing but the solicitation of her friends could overcome. 
It was an experiment at least of doubtful success ; yet she at 
last consented to make it. Her letters to the most prominent 
female writers of the order, soliciting contributions, were also 
letters of friendship, and generally resulted in permanent cor- 
respondence and intimate acquaintance. In one of these she 
thus writes of home : — 

" When reading over the details of your numerous duties and en- 
gagements, I almost wonder where you find a moment for literary 
pursuits, and yet, wherever there is a natural fondness for such pur- 
suits, I believe there are no cares, nor toils, nor pleasures, engrossing 
enough to prevent its gratification. My literary and domestic engage- 
ments are about equal. I have no 'cherubs,' but my 'host' has 
eleven, at home, some of them rather old for cherubs, too, the young- 
est eight years. I do very little visiting — scarcely attend half a dozen 
parties in a year, have considerable company from abroad during the 
warm season, and generally make one or two short excursions myself 
among those I particularly love. My home is very rural, and, in the 
summer, quite enchanting. Every one who visits me is called upon 
to fall into raptures with Bow-Brook, or receive the opprobrium of 
having a very dull taste. When you come to see me, be sure that 
you are lavish in your admiration of our sweet village.'' 

And of her friends she thus writes : — 

" What have I to do, but to think of the beings I love? They are 
never away from me — never. It matters not how intently my mind 
is fixed upon other things, thei/ never leave it. It is made up of their 
memories ; it has no existence independent of them." 

To one who was afterwards very near to her, she thus in- 
troduces herself : — 

" Presuming that you will at once surmise the object of my letter, 
I will pass, as I always love to, over all introductions and apologies, 
and tell you at once how very glad I am to feel free to cast aside, 
forever, I dare to trust, the name and the feelings of a stranger. 
Most delightful of all life's blessings to me, is an unreserved and 
ardent communion with the good and the intellectual of our earth ; 



32 MEMOIR. 

and if I am in general somewhat too free, particularly in my epistolary 
intercourse, those who know me wUl not, I think, attribute the fault 
either to vanity, self-esteem, or a want of respect towards those whom 
I address. But there is always existing within me — and the feeling 
I believe is innate — a consciousness of the reality of life — a free 
spirit of companionship with the heirs of heaven, unfettered by any 
of those petty forms of fashion and prudery (falsely called propriety) 
which are prison-walls between human hearts, cold, impenetrable, 
unyielding. When I reflect, for one moment, upon the true nature 
of human life — its brevity, and the very little real importance that 
belongs to its interests or pursuits, except as they prepare the spirit 
for its immortal destiny, I am astonished, nay more, almost indignant, 
that foolish creeds, and rules, and ceremonies, devised by men, should 
set up barriers of ice between hearts that should flow together in one 
living stream of love, free, musical, and heavenward. It shall not be 
so with us, shall it, dear sister ■?" 

And to the same person she writes again : — 

" If I could feel conscious that in all my efforts, with the pen or 
otherwise, I could do the same amount of good to one individual that 
I have received from a single sermon, I would go to my grave satis- 
fied that my mission was worthy of my toils, and had been well 
accomplished. ***** The more I love in this world of 
loves, the more I desire the home where I can rest in this love — 
where all can be ever with me — all the chosen, I mean — the dear 
elect, of whom you are one, — the peculiar objects of my earthly love. 
You shall make one in my heavenly coterie — may I, dear friend, be 
one in yours? I am about to commence Wordsworth's Poems, this 
week. I do not know how I am to get along without you. I know 
I shall weep if I find any very beautiful passage. I shall so miss the 
sweet assenting spirit that would beam from your eyes, could I but 

meet them. I had Miss B with me one little week, this fall, and 

we lived in the interchange of looks, and thoughts, and feelings, of 
this kind ; then I have since been with you — so like — in cultivation 
of mind, and that delicate perception of the beautiful, that can only 
belong to spirits of the highest order of purity ; and now to be alone ! 
What if the poet-land be all beautiful and holy, and thronged with 
spirits truer than earthly loves ? If there be not one with me there, 
who can feel with me that it is so, my heart will ache, and find its 
very enjoyment painful, unless participated. I do not know how to 

account for it, Mrs. C , but I have been hearing your voice for five 

minutes past, singing that sweet little song I so admired : — ' Let us 
go to the Leal-Land, love ;' and my heart is throbbing, as you saw it 



MEMOIR. 33 

once, and would fain go there with yours. Some day, love, will you 
be kind enough to copy that little song for mel — the words I mean. 
I intended to have done it myself, but forgot it." 

Her religious struggles of this period are briefly noticed in 
a letter to Mrs. Scott, in the following words : — 

" Between Heaven and my own heart have been witnessed many 
struggles known only to the searching eye of God. It is through 
such as these that I am becoming prepared for a perfect appreciation 
of the enjoyments of the unseen world, where the affections of an ardent 
heart will know no cold response, nor feel the pangs of partings and 
farewells. My trials are all within; having there their birth, and 
there the sphere of their operations. They are combats between 
reason and feeling — between duty and inclination; and, owing to 
the peculiar constitution of my mind, I suppose these struggles will 
always continue. Feeling a strong conviction of the proper course 
for me to pursue in my present life, I take upon myself duties and 
responsibilities which require of me greater efforts of intellect than I 
am, in many moods, capable of making. Yet, in my moments of 
sober reflection, I feel that it is right and well that I have driven my- 
self into labor, — for what little talents I have were not given me for 
selfish gratification alone. While I can, I must make them available 
to others." 

In the autumn of 1838, Mrs. Scott came to Boston, to attend 
the General Convention of Universalists, and there commenced 
a personal acquaintance, which continued till the death of the 
former, with increasing interest. We also find hints of other 
occasional visits ; to the city, especially, and to Haverhill, the 
residence of Rev. H. Bacon, which he has described in the 
glowing language of friendship, in his affectionate notice of 
her life, in the Rose of Sharon for 1S49. With these few 
exceptions, however, her time was spent at home. Here, 
surrounded by her father's family, working, studying, and 
walking, giving and receiving village calls, she was happy 
and content. Now and then the household atmosphere was 
brightened by the dropping in of a friend from abroad. Then 
all work and study were thrown aside, Bow-Brook, and the 
woods and hills explored, and a jubilee of the heart enjoyed 
for a few days, succeeded by the old quiet, — more delightful 
after the excitement of the interruption. 



34 MEMOIR. 

In the autumn of 1840 appeared the first number of the 
Rose of Sharon. She had worked upon this with many mis- 
givings, being obliged to write a large proportion of the articles 
herself. Yet the success of the annual was so favorable, that 
she was encouraged to proceed, and continued to edit it till her 
death. Under her care it rapidly improved in literary merit. 
Her own best productions were always reserved for its pages ; 
— it, therefore, contains the only series by which it would be 
just to estimate her increasing power of execution. The 
praiseworthy object of this annual, that it should be a yearly 
repository from some of the best writers of the denomination ; 
its entire freedom from sectarian narrowness ; and the excel- 
lence of many things contained in it ; give us the right to 
claim for it a rank superior to that generally assumed by such 
publications. For the denominational literature it has done 
much, and perhaps even more, by the cultivation of a spirit of 
union and friendly intercourse among its popular writers. At 
her death it passed to the editorial charge of Mrs. C. M. Saw- 
yer, whose fine taste and literary reputation are a pledge that 
it will be made yet more deserving the attention of the reading 
community. 

Of the oppression caused by the unusual demand upon her 
pen this year, she thus writes : — 

" If you have never been confined to a certain prescription of liter- 
ary duties, you can scarcely imagine how perplexing it is. The 
very fact that I must do, paralyzes my mental powers ; and I often 
waste hours in vain struggles to acquit myself of duties that require 
instant execution. The thought of how much lies before me in the 
six approaching months — the usual contributions to the Repository, 
the care of the annual, and a thousand subordinate studies and occu- 
pations — bring such a weight of anxiety upon my mind, that it seems 
fettered and motionless at times. A person of stronger intellectual 
energies, would laugh at my faltering before labors so apparently 
trivial ; but I am very willing to confess myself weak and timid. I 
care not for the labor, in itself considered ; but the responsibility I am 
brought under, sinks my courage. However, my case is not so bad 
as it might be, for my friends are kind enough 'to help me bear the 
burden ; and I believe, if I fail altogether, there will not be found 
wanting many to palliate my weakness, and encourage me onward 
once more." 



MEMOIR. 35 

Yet she turns from thoughts like these, to speak a word of 
consolation. To a dear friend, who was at this time watching 
at the bedside of a mother, she thus says : — 

" I must write to you, for my heart is full. God be with you, my 
beloved friend, in all your trials. I would that I, too, could be with 
you, if it were even possible, that I might alleviate one pain, or 
brighten one moment by weariless sympathies. You will pardon my 
letter, if it intrude where it should not. Though I feel that I have 
love's privilege, I would use it ever gently, and with reserve. But 
you will not suspect me of officious condolence, and if you know 
anything of me, you will know that my sympathies are sincere. I 
love you far too well ever to breath a word to you that comes not 
from the soul. Therefore, I will tell you that my heart has often 
ached at the thought of what you might be, and probably have been, 
suffering at the bedside of one so dear to you. So much to me lives 
in the name oi mother, that any word of pain or sorrow or death, con- 
nected with it, comes to me with a threefold bitterness. If there be 
any one on earth who has realized the excellence, the steadfastness, 
the perfect self-sacrifice of a mother's love, surely it is I, and those 
who share it with me ; and all I can now conceive of human agony, 
must be met, in its strength and in its weakness, when my last fare- 
well is breathed to that perfect friend ! Heaven make that trial light 
to you, my friend, whenever it be imposed. * * * * Perhaps you 
will like to hear how time passes with me. As usual, and pleasantly. 
The little world around me is happy — so am I — happy, save in tho 
fears, anxieties, and regrets, that I suffer for all I love ; and those 1 
would not be spared, even if I could. I keep at work, day after day, 
but it is little indeed that I accomplish. My labors are so lonely, so 
uninstructed, and so feeble, that I have many falterings and doubts in 
my onward way. Oh, what a trial it is to have a heart to do, and no 
strength ; a will, and no power ; a love, and no gifts ! It is a difficult 
lesson for me to learn to be content with my feebleness. I have no 
desire to be great, but I wish I might do good, and bless everything 
I love ; — my religion, and all who come within its brotherhood, and 
through them the world. But why should I write you all this? These 
desires are not new, not peculiar to myself; I wish I could say, my 
weakness in fulfilling them, is not. I feel very painfully at times how 
much less I accomplish than others would, in my place ; but, though 
these self-reproaches are not the best comforters in the world, they will 
doubtless work their good ; they at least incite me to perseverance. 
The care of the annual is once more returning. I ought to say the gen- 
erous encouragements of friends, the past year, have made the approach 



36 MEMOIR. 

of this labor less fearful than on the former occasion ; indeed , had it 
not been for those kind commendations, I should not dream of a second 
effort. I am most thankful — Heaven knows I am — for the goodness 
of those hearts that have blessed me thus ; and doubly grateful tow- 
ards those who assisted me in my task, and gave it all the success it 
was fortunate enough to receive. Will they do as much for me again 1 

Mrs. C , will you? If you can, you will, you are so good, and 

ever so kind to me. I am thinking of making you my co-editor; will 
you accept? How I would like it, and how light would the labor be, 
thus shared ! Come to me when the flowers and birds are here, and 
we will dwell with them in green-wood bowers — and our papers and 
books shall be with us, and we will read, and talk, and form plans, 
and be the happiest wood-nymphs that ever watched over the flowers ; 
and our flower — the dear little ' Rose' — shall be the sweetest and 
purest that ever blessed a dryad's care, and we will — Oh dear, why 
should I sketch so bright a picture? Can it ever be a copy from 
nature — a scene from history — our history, my beloved friend? 
Would, indeed, that it might be ; but life is, for the most part, made 
up of darker views, and perhaps higher pursuits. Nevertheless, I 
cannot but often dream of hours like these ; they seem so sweet, and 
unalloyed — so like a fairy life — in which , invisible dwellers in na- 
ture's holy sanctuaries, we should quietly work unseen blessings for 
the race of man, and bless ourselves in our deeds. You see how self 
predominates in these dreams ; how I would draw you from all domes- 
tic ties, and- make you a very girl with myself. I am very foolish, I 
know — a perfect natural — for in my baby-days I had the same wild 
fantasies floating in my brain, and the same dreamy desires for gypsy 
freedom. I would be one of Diana's maids of honor, and if it be true 
that she condescended to kiss Endymion, who knows but she would 
allow me to love some shepherd pastoral or divine ?" 

And again, to the same friend, she gives a characteristic 
revelation of her dependence upon the sympathy of friends for 
encouragement : — 

" It is a week this day since I received your letter, and very wel- 
come, indeed, it was, for it not only partially relieved my anxiety for 
you, but also gratified my heart by its pleasant words of kindness and 
affection. I would have answered it even earlier than this had I not 
been literally working on a treadmill of poetry for the dear admiring 
public. I have just stepped off for a day or two to chat with friends, 
and then back I must go again. Never mind ; I go more willingly 
since you have so kindly encouraged me. It may seem foolish, but 



MEMOIR. 37 

it certainly is true, that a few such words of gentle approval have a 
great power to strengthen and soothe my heart. When you tell me 
that I ought to persevere and he patient — that I can do if I will — I 
feel that indeed I will not fi'et any more, but do the best I know how, 
and wait for the blessing of God upon it. Of this, however, enough ; 
but I will say that if I could be blessed with your aid — if we could 
live and work together — if you would guide the ' barque,' and let me 
merely dip the oars ; if you would suffer me to brush away the mus- 
quitoes that vex your ears, while you arc kissing away the venom of 
some angry hornet from my lips, why, then, I should be ever very 
happy, let what evils would assail us. But can we ever be voyagers 
thus together? Will you come into my barque, dear friend, and glide 
with me along the shores of the river of Song, whereon are grow- 
ing snow-white flowers and sweet-voiced reeds — flowers of which I 
will weave a beauteous garland for your brow, and reeds through 
which I will ever breathe to you love's own soft music 1 " 

And to Mrs. Scott : — 

" After all the flattering things you have said of me in your letter 
— flattering I say, not because I believe you did not feel them, but 
because I cannot but deem them the partial encomiums of one whose 
love veils faults and exaggerates merits — after all those flattering 
things, what can I find to write in reply ? Oh, my dear friend, I can 
only say, that, flattery or no flatteiy, there is no voice on earth sweeter 
to me than your praises. I own I like well enough to be admired by 
the world — the compliments of editors, even, are not displeasing, 
inasmuch as they tend to give me confidence in my own powers ; but 
it is only the private commendations of those I dearly love, that excite 
deep emotions in my heart. You can have no idea how- utterly dis- 
couraged I become at times ; how I long to throw aside my pen for- 
ever ; how worthless I deem every production I have ever given to the 
world ; how perfectly hopeless I am of any future improvement. And 
at such moments the sweet encouragements of those whose judgment 
I confide in, whose talents I venerate, come to my heart like the cool 
soft wind to the fainting wanderer of the desert." 

Yet passages like the following show that she had just views 
of literarj' composition : — 

" You have given me some very good and just remarks upon the 

popular habit which writers of the pi'esent day have, of throwing their 

thoughts carelessly to the press, without study or revision, — and you 

ask mv opinion. Notwithstanding I plead personally guilty to the 

4 



38 MKMOIK. 

same habit, I am not disposed, for that reason, to approve of it, in 
any department of Uterature. And yet, I think less of revision, than 
of care and study in the first composition. I know not how it is with 
others, but I know of myself, that, except in trivial verbal corrections, 
I never alter with any degree of success. The time that many spend 
in revision, I occupy in the original moulding of my thoughts. I 
presume there are few writers who would not laugh at the length of 
time I spend in composition — save now and then, when I am obliged 
to dash off at a stroke something to make up my ' quantum sufficit' 
for the Repository. But whether the study be before or after com- 
mitting thoughts to paper, I do contend that it is every author's duty 
to use care and reasonable labor in the execution of whatever is in- 
tended for the benefit of the public ; and that style should be as much 
studied as sentiment — since it is style that makes sentiment popular. 
What but the beauty and fascination of their style could ever have 
made so many licentious works popular ? And how could the pure 
and elevated spirit of Channing's theology have penetrated and hal- 
lowed so many hearts through any other medium than the classic 
elegance and sweet ideality of the language in which it is embodied ? 
— I believe there are a considerable number who make pretensions to 
authorship, who really do not know how to finish a composition ; who 
seem to imagine that a display of pretty words, and a picturesque 
sprinkling of Ohs and Ahs make fine writing, without regard to ele- 
gance of arrangement or neatness of form and finish. What do such 
persons think of the tender simplicity of Wordsworth, or the rich 
economy of Irving ? How do they appreciate the quaint grotesque 
of Lamb, or the sweet fanciful arabesque of Mary Howitt ? — But I 
am no critic — (I wish I were, for private purposes) — and I am so 
fully aware of my own faults and deficiencies, that I dare not say 
what I think of others. ******! should write a thou- 
sand things to you, were we personally acquainted, which I do not 
feel perfectly free to discuss now. I cannot touch upon themes where 
I am not certain I shall meet perfect sympathy, for I am one of those 
unfortunate, or fortunate, mortals, who are made wretched by one 
unharmonious tone in the communion of love and thought." 

In a letter to Mrs. Case, she gives a reason for the resolu- 
tion she had formed of confining her exertions entirely within 
the limits of her own denomination ; — a resolution from which 
she never departed : — 

"I am gratified — I must not say flattered — by what you have 
written concerning my probable success in a more open and elevated 



MEMOIR. 3& 

literary field. I confess I have myself often thought of going into the 
presence of the hig-h and mighty ones, but not to speak of my proba- 
ble speedy expulsion — I have always restrained my ambition by the 
thought — if I should be kindly received, if my name should become 
known to the gifted and the wise, surely I am in no way competent 
to sustain the dignity that would be imposed upon me. I am a timid, 
shrinking, simple thing, grown up like a weed without care or culti- 
vation, ignorant of the great world, its rules and ceremonies, and idle 

pomp. Oh dear, Mrs. C , a few such thoughts have soon tamed all 

my aspirations, and I have felt, that instead of venturing further, I 
would draw myself more closely beneath the sheltering wings of our 
own household of faith. I know there w-ould accrue advantages to 
those works with which I am associated, were I favorably known to 
the literary world — but not yet — I am too conscious of my in- 
firmities." 

From her correspondence of 1840, I extract a few other 
characteristic passages : — 

" A faithful discharge of my editorial duties requires me to be in- 
dustrious and studious, qualities quite incompatible with visiting and 
journeying from scene to scene. I can do nothing of an intellectual 
character unless my feelings are all quiet. Excitement, of all things, 
wears most upon my mental energies as well as my physical strength. 
Perhaps you are not thus weak ; but you will be generous enough to 
consider that from my infancy up to the age of twenty-one, my life 
has been, with very transient interruptions, one continued scene of 
seclusion and quiet thought. Any infringement upon these long- 
established habits bewilders my brain, and excites my nerves, so that 
for weeks, ay, sometimes months after, I do not recover my wonted 
repose of feeling, and serenity of thought." 

" My dear friend, do you not think I ought to learn deep and solemn 
lessons from histories like this 1 You know not how deeply my lieart 
is impressed by these truths. I feel that I ought to kneel down at 
the feet of God, and ask him to lay upon me a portion of the heavy 
burdens that are wearing away the strength of those who are dear to 
me. I feel that I ought to sacrifice my own sweet peace and richly- 
blest affections, that I might suffer as others suffer. But no ; God has 
given me these precious blessings in trust, and I must be faithful in 
the vigils he has bidden me keep over them. But oh, may he grant 
that, if his mercy shall some time remove them, I may imitate the 
patience and hallowed serenity which is so beautifully manifested by 
those whom now I see afllicted and weighed down with grief!" 



40 MEMOIR, 

" You will begin to think me either a very forgetful or a very care- 
less girl, I fear ; but the truth is, I am 50 busy. I wish you were 
here, in my pleasant little study, and could look into ray multiform 
engagements, since my return. Here, on my table, lies Carlyle's 
' French Revolution,' — second volume unread, but waiting impa- 
tiently for a perusal — also my Bible, which I study when I can, and 
my French books, which I have not looked into, save for reference, 
since I came from Marblehead. The last Expositor and Knicker- 
bocker lie also untouched. But these are by no means all. My 
great stuffed green velvet arm-chair is full of books, five volumes of 
which treat of flowers. These make now my daily study, as you 
will perceive in future numbers of the Repository, in which I shall 
publish a series of simple lessons upon botany, my favorite science. 
Then my ' Herbarium' claims a portion of my time, in pressing and 
arttaching flowers, and writing down their analysis. But you will be 
weary of hearing all my occupations, for I assure you I have but 
made a beginning of the long account. Suffice it to say, in excuse 
for my long delay, that every moment of my time is busily employed, 
and yet half my duties remain unperformed. I owe very many letters 
to very dear friends ; but I keep putting off from day to day, in hope 
that the time may come soon when I shall have more leisure. But I 
doubt whether leisure ever comes to me, for study is never done, and 
I am so far, so very far behind what I ought to be, that I am fright- 
ened to pause a moment, to think of my real ignorance. ***** 
I must regret that circumstances have required me to publish far 
more than has been worthy of the public eye. I have been a good 
deal dependent upon my literary efforts, for the few luxuries of life 
which they have procured me. I have been obliged to \\rrite, that I 
might buy books to read ; to write much, ere I could read at all. And 
so I have plunged into many errors and mortifications, which, under 
other circumstances, might have been spared me." 

To a newly-married couple she writes : — 

" Now I have threatened you suflUciently with a visit, I must tell 
you upon what condition, only, it is to be inflicted. It is this; you 
must permit me to be just as undignified, and rustic, and wild, as I 
choose to be ; you must not call me company, nor expect me to say a 
single author-like saying. You must let me be so unpoetical as to 
eat, — Byron notwithstanding ; you must not forbid my working in 
the garden with brother farmer, in his yellow bandanna, nor romping 
out of doors without my bonnet, when the passion takes me. All 
these things you will remember and observe, and then you may be 



MEMOIR. 4f 

sure the visit will be a long infliction. Do you begin to feel fatigued 

already 1 Oh no ! dear M , I am sure, if we are well, we shall 

have some very happy hours together. I have never known any with 
you that were not so. I shall learn of you to do the graces of the 
household, which wisdom will be necessary for me, though who knows 
but I shall have a house some time ? If I do, I mean it shall be some- 
where in a range with the hill-side and sea-shore parsonages. But 
whether I have a house or not, it matters little, so that I keep the 
happy heart that beats so lightly in my bosom now. I have a very 
pleasant home here. I wish very much to have you see it in the 
beauty of summer. Art has done but little for it, but nature, in our 
little Bow-Brook valley, has put on her sweetest dress ; and trees 
and shrubs and flowers fill up the borders of a most musical stream, 
whose melody makes the charm of my little ' studio,' from early 
spring till frozen midwinter. The birds, too, haunt the vale, in mul- 
titudes ; and the frogs make the sweetest and most plaintive sere- 
nades that can be imagined, through all the warm spring nights. 
My little study, — shall I sketch it? It is at the back of the house, 
and has but one window, where the sun never enters. This window 
looks down a hill-side into the vale, and upon the brook, from the 
point where it rushes over a mill-dam, till it enters a small and pretty 
mill-pond. Almost opposite, across the brook, rises the steep, high 
hill, which shuts in the view, and is crowned with trees, and clothed 
with the greenest of all grass. Some twenty or thirty beautiful elms, 
a profusion of wild elders and shrub willows, a picket-fence, a bank 
wall, and beneath the window a nursery of fruit-trees and currant-- 
bushes, make up the minor beauties of the scene." 

" This tediously warm weather almost unfits me for the slightest 
exertion. I am actually gasping for a cool breath. I sincerely pity 
all who are encompassed by the brick walls of a city. I find that 
Nature and her holy solitudes become dearer to me every year. 
Her temples are almost my only sanctuaries. Her wide-spread and 
deep-toned volume has become to me almost as sacred as the revealed 
word of God ; and the more I study the silent and beautiful mysteries 
enshrined within it, the more sure, and earnest, and hallowing be- 
comes my faith in the unshadowed and unfathomed goodness of the 
great Creator." 

" It has been said that joy hardens our hearts to the sorrows of others. 
I think it is not so. My sympathies are never more acute than when 
I am happy ; and it is not less to me that you are bereft, because my 
cup of blessedness is full. From yesterday's papers I first learned 
your loss — learned that the silver cord of that loved spirit was loosed, 
'1* 



42 MEMOIR. 

and the prisoner free ! Doubtless the bitterest portion of the bitter 
cup had been already drank ; but it is not a httle thing to feel that all 
our tender offices of love are needed no more forever ; that the eye 
that turned to us with petitions for comfort, can never look on us 
again ; and that we are no longer necessary to the peace of the fondest 
heart that ever beat for us, and which would have beat for us when 
all others became estranged and cold. I have felt, and do still feel, 
great anxiety for you. I know not how much you have been called 
to endure, nor how capable you are at present of upbearing yourself 
through renewed trials. I am concerned lest you may be sick, or 
otherwise suffering; and in this uncertainty, I cannot think of you 
without painful solicitude. It seems to have become my destiny to 
love you very much ; and though that love may be to you but as the 
pleasant incense of a summer flower, it is to me what the fragrance 
is to the flower — a part of myself. ' ' 

" I do believe, my dear S , (I am going to moralize a little — 

but don't be frightened,) I do believe that there is nothing in life so 
beautiful and elevating as the cultivation and improvement of the 
intellect in connection with the moral sentiments. I do believe that 
one who really and heartily loves communion with high thoughts, has 
resources of pure and satisfying happiness, unknown to, and exceed- 
ing those of any other propensity or faculty of our being. I care not 
in what sphere the mind may range, whether it be in the fields of 
natural science, or in the subtler, and, may be, loftier element of 
metaphysics ; whether it revels and soars in the glittering light of 
imagination, or plods diligently along the solid paths of mathematics. 
I care not where its course may lie, so that it be upward and onward ; 
for its ultimate destiny is to glory, its every day wanderings are amid 
satisfying joys. You will think I am assuming the office of Mentor, 
if I go on in this way ; but I do assure you I but speak from my own 
convictions, and with a feeling that there is useful truth in what I 
write. I speak not of fame — no woman needs fame to make her 
happiness ; but I do speak of that diligent and persevering application 
to study and thought, which are necessary to fame, and which inlay 
the mind with treasures that time cannot corrode, nor sorrow destroy. 
In a few years we shall be young no longer, and the amusements 
of youth will fail to please us. May be our friends will forsake us 
for a holier kindred in heaven, or will grow cold and careless, and 
we shall find no sympathy in all this heartless world. But the 
stores of the soul will yet be ours. The green fields and the gentle 
flowers will be our friends — high thoughts will dwell with us con- 
tinually in our loneliness ; and even if the whole outer world is with- 



MEMOIR. 43 

drawn, deep in our own spirits we shall find a glorious company of 
bright and beautiful visions — of hallowed and elevated memories — of 
deep and tranquil reflections, and of well-grounded and unwavering 
faith." 

To her sisters, while upon a visit to the city, she wTites : — 

" Please transjix the roses, and phlox, and eglantine, that I may 
enjoy their beauty when I return. And do not let my little tree die, 
I have been so worried that I dreamed of it. I thought some one 
had cut off the top, and nearly killed it ; and I leaned my face upon 
mother, and said, in a most pathetic voice, with tears in my eyes — 
'If my tree dies, I shall die too.' Was not that a very affecting 
dream? I dream as much as ever, and a good deal about home." 

Of Carlyle she thus speaks : — 

" What a remarkable power of laying things bare has Carlyle. I 
have read histories in which the details were more clear and syste- 
matic, I think, than in his of the French Revolution ; but never one 
in which the ' unveiled heart' was pictured with such a Daguerreotype 
fidelity, nor where the veil of its hidden worlds was so completely 
rent, and the struggles of Diabolus with the Angel of Light so clearly 
revealed. I hardly know with what party to league myself, though 
I stood with Mirabeau till he fell ; and then I was lost in the hubbub, 
and watched only the motion of the guillotine, as it rose and fell with 
increasing rapidity, till even the ' sea-green monster' himself left his 
mutilated head upon the machine he had worked so long with such 
dire success." 

A larger proportion of her time than usual was spent from 
home during this year. In June she went to Boston, to read 
proof for the " Rose ;" then we have a record of a few pleasant 
weeks at Marblehead, in the family of Rev. H. Bacon; at 
Maiden, and other towns in the vicinity. Immediately upon 
her return home, she started, in company with her parents, 
upon a journey to New York and Pennsylvania. The object 
Avas to visit friends, attend the Universalist Convention at 
Auburn, N. Y. ; but chiefly to spend a feAv weeks with I\Irs. 
Scott, at her residence in Towanda, Pennsylvania. In a let- 
ter to a friend, she thus sketches her journey : — 

" I enjoyed the sail up the Hudson. We had a delightful day 
for scene-gazing, and had the views been less celebrated, I should 



44 MEMOIR. 

have been perfectly bewildered by their richness. I almost thought 
Niagara would have lost a portion of its glory on this account, but I 
was mistaken. Then came the valley of the Mohawk, and the wild 
romance of Little Falls ; after these, the beautiful inland villages of 
New York — as Utica, Chnton, Syracuse, &c. At this last place, 
we took the canal for Rochester, and of all conveyances, I must pro- 
nounce this the most perfectly detestable. My miseries, however, 
were occasioned quite as much by the disagreeable company with 
which we were imprisoned, as by the inconveniences of the boat. If 
it were not for mere shame, I would tell you I spent the first day in 
sitting down at mother's feet and crying, while I pretended to be 
busily engaged with my pen all the while. However, those two un- 
happy days ended, we found ourselves landed in Rochester at early 
dawn. This is the most beautiful city I have ever seen — Lowell 
not excepted. I have no space to describe it here; neither Genesee 
Falls, where Sam Patch took his last leap. I spent two days with 
my brother, at Greece, six miles from the city ; a public house, called 
the Garden Resort, being connected with a large garden, containing 
a green-house and several hot-houses, and filled with the rarest 
plants, many specimens of the most beautiful of which my brother 

gave me to send home. Br. and wife, with some Providence 

friends, joined me here, and by way of Buffalo we went to Niagara 
together. Buffalo is a fine city, but, for beauty, will not compare 
witii Rochester. 

" The sail down the Niagara river was one of the most luxurious 
seasons of my life ; and Niagara itself — let me not speak, for I shall 
only make myself ridiculous. I was at the Falls three days, during 
which I enjoyed more than in any other period of my life of equal 
length ; and many times a day does the memory of what I then saw 
come to me like some rich and holy dream of a better world. I have 
a stronger desire to visit Niagara now than I had before I became a 
witness of its glory." 

From Niagara she proceeded to Auburn, and thence to 
Towanda, Penn., the residence of Mrs. Scott. Of her impres- 
sions there, and her return to Utica, she speaks briefly as fol- 
lows, in her memoir of her friend : — 

" In the autumn of 1840, we spent a few weeks with Mrs. Scott at 
her pleasant home in Towanda. It was the delicious Indian summer 
— everywhere beautiful, but thrice glorious when resting down upon 
the mountains and river scenery of Pennsylvania. 

" We found Mrs. Scott much changed, even from the wasted ap- 



MEMOIR. 4& 

pearance she presented two years before. Her health was very poor, 
sometimes quite confining her to the house, and at the best subtract- 
ing much from the enjoyment of her rides and rambles. Neverthe- 
less, we were much abroad, visiting her favorite haunts, riding over 
the rough mountain roads, exploring the sweet islands upon the 
bosom of the river, and realizing in full the dreams of previous years. 
We visited, together, the home of her childhood ; and as we stood by 
the banks of the Susquehannah, and looked up at the rugged AHega- 
nies, that wall in that beautiful valley on either hand, or cast our eyes 
around upon the lovely islands, the swift mountain streams, and the 
emerald meadows asleep in the bosoms of the hills, she related, in her 
glowing and piquant manner, the adventures, the gypst/ings, and the 
romantic dreams of her girlhood. These sylvan communings had a 
charm in them, never to be forgotten. They were held with the 
divinity at her own shrine, and before her own incense-breathing 
altars ; for, to modify slightly the words of another, 

' Her pen had linked with everj' glen, 
And every hill, and every stream, 
The romance of some poet-dream.' 

" But however fascinating to ourself the reminiscences of this 
■visit, they can be of little interest to the general reader. We found 
all that was lovely in the poet, beautifully illustrated in the daily life 
of the woman. Genius was with her no glittering mirage, hovering 
over a barren and arid life ; it was like the rainbow mist uplifting 
itself from the bosom of a pure and fertilizing stream, and soaring up 
to heaven, in incense-wreaths too sweet to be wasted on an earthly 
shrine. 

" We rambled through the mountain passes, and bathed our brow in 
the silvery waters of her native valley ; we stood with her by the bed 
of the dying, where, on her own sweet voice, the departing spirit 
was wafted up in triumph and rejoicing to the throne of the Father ; 
we sat at her side through the simple family devotions that were wont 
to ascend from her own fireside ; and in all these varied scenes and 
acts, it is sufiicient to say of her that the Poet and the Woman were 
scarcely different phases of the same pure, gentle, yet lofty and fer- 
vent SoL'L ; that the Priestess wore into the Holy of Holies the same 
Urim and Thummim that dazzled the eyes of those who saw her only 
in the outer court of the Temple ; and that, as of the Master she 
loved, so might it be said of this faithful servitor, that, 

' In every act, in every thought, 
She lived the precepts that she taught.' 

" On our return to Massachusetts, we besought Mrs. Scott's com- 



46 MEMOIR. 

pany as far as Utica, N. Y., the residence of a mutual friend, in 
whose family we purposed visiting. Although very unwell , she was 
prevailed upon, by our entreaties, to undertake the journey. The 
route w£ls delightful through the villages of Athens, Oswego, Ithaca, 
across the Cayuga Lake by steamboat, and by railroad from Auburn 
to Utica. We arrived safely ; but the second day of our visit Mrs. 
Scott was taken ill, and for nearly a week confined to her chamber. 
As soon as her strength would allow, we returned together to Penn- 
sylvania ; and, though fitter by far for her couch than for the confu- 
sion and fatigue of public travelling, her perception and enjoyment 
of the ludicrous was never more active than through the various adven- 
tures of this comfortless journey." 

From Utica she returned home, where the annual Thanks- 
giving was celebrated with feelings of unusual happiness, after 
so long absence. 

From a series of published letters we extract the following 
details of this pleasant journey, the longest she ever made. 

" Clinton, N. Y., Sept. 2, 1840. 

" Br. Bacon : — Shall the wanderer send home a token of the sun- 
shine in her path, of the bright things and the beautiful that flit before 
her in the fields of nature, of science, and of art? Here am I now, 
in ' classic Clinton,' at a distance of some hundred miles from my 
eastern home, in a pretty village, and a transient resident in an abode 
enlivened by every charm which youth, and beauty, and intelligence, 
and love, can throw so radiantly around it. 

" Were you ever in the town of Worcester, Ms., one of the most 
beautiful of New England villages 1 It was at this place I joined the 
wild career of the ' Iron Horse' through the land of the ancient blue 
laws to Norwich on the Connecticut. At Oxford, a few miles south 
of Worcester, the cars were crowded to overflowing, with a camp- 
meeting congregation ; and neither a very serious nor a very culti- 
vated congregation did it seem. There was an interm.ingling of the 
Ethiop and the Indian, wild Irish and wilder Yankees, all bustling 
with excitement, some singing crazy hallelujahs with lips polluted by 
many draughts from the intoxicating cup, and others huddling together 
in groups, discussing the various incidents of the day. I looked 
around in vain for one countenance on which rested the reflection of 
the smile of God, or where lingered one token of pure and trustful 
communion with the spirits of heaven. And I fell then into a silent 
soliloquy upon the practical tendency of Camp Meetings, and of the 
propriety or impropriety of the attendance of young and delicate 



MEMOIR. 47 

females, where they are subject, not only to the rudeness of an ex- 
cited and sacrilegious crowd, but also to the physical dangers arising 
from night airs, and an encampment upon the damp ground — dangers 
from which at other times, and in other scenes, they would shrink 
with feminine affright and abhorrence. Camp meetings, again, are 
subject to noise, and riot, and profanity, such as are not met in the 
consecrated temples of worship ; for though to the pure, the intellect- 
ual, and the refined, and to those spirits on whom nature has bestowed 
the dowry of true and delicate feeling, there is a superior sanctifica- 
tion, and a most hallowing influence in the glorious temples which 
God's own right hand has built, yet to the great mass of callous 
human hearts, sanctity is conferred only by human dedication, and by 
the symbolic representatives of worship. 

" We entered the crowded saloon of the ' Belle' at seven o'clock. 
It is not one of the most pleasant scenes in life to be the inhabitant 
of a little stifled berth, with a mass of beings around you, some dozen 
or two of them children, breathing through a summer night the close, 
hot air, shared in common with them all, and serenaded by cries of 
infants, the noise of the engine, and numerous other discordant sounds 
such as words can feebly describe. At such times sleep is a friend, 
but a friend often vainly wooed. At about four in the morning, I 
perceived that my companion was dressed for a promenade upon deck, 
and I speedily followed her example. It was delicious to inhale the 
pure sea-breeze once more, and to gaze upon the starry light of God's 
beautiful heavens. Morning had not yet begun to dawn, and vessels 
coming out from the bay glided by us like tall dark spectres, and fell 
into our wake as we hurried on between the faintly visible shores of 
the Sound. 

" At dawn of day we were in the beautiful bay of New York. The 
sky was flushed with a crimson light, bordered with purple and gold ; 
standing up against it, tiie forests that lined the shores looked intensely 
green, and down upon the calm surface of the water was mirrored the 
whole brilliant scene, — a most glorious panorama. Sloops and 
schooners studded the bright arena, their sails spread out in the crim- 
son light, looking like the wings of a rose-colored swan, as their 
bright prows cut apart the glowing waves. The boat drew up at the 
wharf about seven in the morning, hnd we stood for the first time in 
the great city of New York. 

" It was a fine cool morning when we next followed the 'Iron 
Horse' on his watery path up the glorious Hudson. The white mist 
was lifting its silvery wing from the river, and from the green hills 
on the shore, letting in the earliest rays of the sun upon the green 



48 MEMOIR. 

waves through which we ploughed our course. The pen of the trav- 
eller, and the pencil of the artist have so often sketched the beautiful 
scenes of the Hudson, that little remains to be told by a pen so feeble 
as mine. Indeed, so often had I studied the pictures and read the 
descriptions of the Palisades, the Highlands, the Catskills, West 
Point, Newburgh, &c., that it seemed to me like revisiting the long 
absent scenes of childhood. West Point exceeded my expectations. 
It had more of the grand, the unique, and the beautiful, commingled, 
than I had ventured to imagine. Historical associations were abun- 
dant, and romance, also, had thrown her chains around the spot. Kos- 
ciusko, the noble hero of the revolution, the patriot of Poland, and the 
friend of America — he has left a consecration here which may not 
soon depart. And Washington and Putnam — but why enumerate, 
or why attempt to describe with so dull a pen the holy reminiscences 
which will live forever around this classic spot? May the glory of 
its name pass down undimmed to future generations, as a landmark 
of heroism and of liberty. 

" I entered the pretty village of Clinton about sunset of yesterday. 
I was thankful to find myself so fortunate as to be in season to attend 
the exhibition of the Female Liberal Institute. This school is under 
the charge of Miss L. M. Barker, and I knew I had every reason to 
expect high gratification. The church was crowded at an early hour, 
and I learned that there were as many people who went away unable 
to get admittance, as were contained in the house. I attended a 
theatre once, I have been present at many school exhibitions, but I 
never witnessed any scenic representation which for beauty and interest 
would compare with the evening exercises in the Free Church at 
Clinton. They commenced with prayer and music ; after wliich orig- 
inal compositions were read by the authors. 

" The music by the young ladies was very fine, and did credit to 
their instructress. The song by Miss Jane Barker was a beautiful 
thing. To those who were present we need not commend the per- 
formance. ' The lords of creation' told some truths which made the 
gentlemen who were present look rather serious and apprehensive. 
It was a spirited execution. 

" In conclusion let me observe, that the Clinton Female Institute 
is one of the best seminaries in our country. Its worth should be 
better appreciated by our denomination, and a more liberal patronage 
bestowed on it by those who have daughters to educate. Do they 
know that their children would lose nothing of a mother's tenderness, 
nothing of a mother's watchful anxiety, under the charge of the excel- 



MEMOIR. 49 

lent and talented lady who stands at the head of this seminary? Do 
they know that there the mind will not claim the exclusive care of 
the teacher, but that the o^ec/ioTis, the warm yo\xng heart, will be nur- 
tured, and guarded, and refined ? Do they know that love is the only 
governing principle by which they are directed, and that the lady of 
whom we speak, possesses an almost magic power of winning trustful 
and ardent attachment? I speak not for praise, but for truth, and I 
beg the consideration of all parents who feel any interest in the intel- 
lectual and moral education of their daughters. Let them make a 
trial — I know the result. 

" Excuse, brother, this hasty letter. It has been written in the 
midst of innocent merriment, and I am conscious of having very im- 
perfectly expressed myself. Nevertheless, I believe you will be 
pleased to hear of my wanderings, and will grant indulgence in view 
of the circumstances under which I write. More anon. 

" Very truly your sister." 

" Greece, N. Y., Sept. 8, 1840. 

" Br. Bacon : — This is to be a rambling letter, partaking very much 
of the recent life of its writer ; and though I address you now from 
western New York, I may, before I finish, find myself some hundred 
miles from here. Greece! there is magic in the name, and to me, a 
little in the place. It is a small village, six miles west of Rochester ; 
and the place at which I am for a few days a resident, called the 
Garden Resort, is, in a certain character, beautiful. It is connected 
with a large botanic garden and nurseries, where a lover of the 
minuter beauties of nature may find ample means of gratification. 
But apart from this — ' the waveless horizon !' as Mrs. Hemans used 
to exclaim, of Wavertree, I think. The waveless horizon ! I do 
really weary for a hill, but no hill is to be found. I confess I am no 
great lover of the softly beautiful, and though the fields may be green 
and rich, and the forests dense and magnificent, there is a monotony 
about a level country from which no vegetable luxuriance can re- 
deem it. 

" I cannot suppose that the details of my journey here will be inter- 
esting either to you or to the readers of the Repository. From Mad- 
ison county to Syracuse it was performed in a stage-coach, which, if 
one wishes a view of inland scenery, is decidedly preferable to either 
rail-cars or canal boats. We had some fine specimens of country 
luxury on our route, particularly about Cazenovia, and upon the bor- 
ders of the lake. I prefer a sheet of water like Cazenovia lake, to 
one of more magnitude ; for a mere expanse of water without the 

5 



50 MEMOIR. 

relief of verdant shores, has the same monotony of which I have just 
finished a complaint. 

" As the disagreeable things of life should be kept in the back- 
ground as much as possible, I will pass over two days in a canal boat 
though we passed through much of a truly luxuriant country. There 
were some scenes perfectly Arcadian ; winding streams, over-arched 
by trees, soft green vales, and velvet slopes — everything, in short, to 
make up a fairy picture. Our landing was at Rochester, the most 
beautiful city I have ever seen. The streets are very wide, neatly 
paved, and kept in a cleanly condition, which last particular cannot 
be observed of every city in the Empire State. The dwellings are 
generally fine, and each has its shaded yard, with a portico covered 
with honey-suckle and woodbine, or some equally tasteful decoration, 
which mingles up the country with the city in a manner and degree I 
have never seen elsewhere. 

" I took a walk one evening to Genesee Falls, made memorable by 
the last leap of Sam Patch. The scene was romantic, but the water 
was so low in the river, that the ledge of rocks was completely bare. 
It was the home of a waterfall — but the waterfall was not at home. 

" Niagara, Sept. 14. 

" I left Rochester on the 10th, in company with Br. W. S. Balch 
and lady, and some friends of his from Providence. We reached 
Buffalo that evening, and remained till afternoon of the next day. 
Buffalo is a pleasant and a busy city, but the day was gloomy and 
cold, and my feelings hardly did justice to its beauties. Moreover, 
my thoughts were at Niagara, and I was impatient to be there also. 

" We took the steamboat down the river. It was a rich day to me. 
The beauty of the shores, and the deep mighty river, of an 4ntense 
green, whose hue kept constantly changing as it met the glance of the 
capricious sun, formed one of the most original and unique scenes I 
have ever witnessed. We passed on the west side of Grand Island, 
and Navy Island, the rendezvous oi xhe Canada patriots, took the rail- 
road at Fort Schlosser, and reached the Cataract House about the 
middle of the afternoon. 

" I have been here now three days, and shall I give you my impres- 
sions of the falls ? Nay, rather let me retrace my many walks, and 
tell you what I have seen. We passed through two streets, which 
looked like any other earthly streets, and stopped upon the bridge 
leading to Bath Island. Here the only view we have, is of the rapids, 
which are, indeed, sufficient of themselves to awaken the deepest 
enthusiasm of the soul. Above and below you, the deep waters are 



MEMOIR. 51 

dancing and leaping, in garments of mingled silver and green ; the 
under-tides of the broad and mighty river are continually upheaving, 
and crowding their angry billows to the light ; you stand in the midst 
of an eternal song, whose tones are swelling and deepening above, 
around, and beneath you ; the spray of the Great Fall is veiling your 
vision on the west ; a scene of sylvan beauty and quietude is before 
you on the south ; the waters of the vast inland seas come rushing 
with hosannas of triumph from the east, and behind you only, where 
at such times they should be, lie the works and the haunts of men. 

" Having registered our names at Bath Island, we crossed another 
bridge to Iris Island. This is more than a mile in circumference, and, 
apart from the wonderful scenes connected with it, is one of the sweet- 
est spots in the world. The soil is of exceeding richness, giving 
birth to every variety of flower and shrub. The trees are old and 
majestic, casting a heavy shade over the island, and kept constantly 
fresh by the shower of spray that is falling over them, and working 
its way silently to their roots. From the bridge we ascend a little 
hill, and take the pathway to the right. Completely embowered by 
the massy branches of the trees, the only tokens of our vicinity to one 
of the greatest wonders of the world, were the occasional glimpses of 
foam which met us through interstices of shrubbery, the soft mist 
which fell over our brows like the baptism of the Holy Spirit, and the 
deep, wild, unearthly roar of the fallen giant, as he gathers himself up 
for a less furious race through the narrow defiles below. 

" Having reached the western verge of the island, we again turn 
to the right, down a steep rugged path kept always wet and slippery 
by the spray, and stand upon a point directly above the Cascade, or 
middle fall. Here was our first view. And what did I feel, think 
you, at this vision of the mightiness of God 1 I am ashamed of my- 
self, or ought to be, I suppose, hut really, for a while I was not con- 
scious of any sensation. I did not feel disappointed, as I was told I 
should ; I did not feel surprised, neither was I deeply impressed. I 
v/ished my heart to stop beating till I could go away and be alone — 
I wanted darkness and solitude around me — I could not feel when I 
was expected to feel — I never like to equal people's anticipations. 
Is not this a natural trait in human character ? 

" Our next course was along the side of the island to Biddle Stair- 
case. Here we descend one hundred and thirty steps, and find our- 
selves in a pathway leading to either fall. We turned to the left, and 
j followed the narrow pathway along the ledge to the foot of the Great 
1 Crescent Fall. I lingered on my way picking the most beautiful 
wild flowers of the season — Gentians and Scutellarias — loving them 



^ MEMOIR, 

better than ever, that they, at least, would be companions with me in 
my insignificance. 

" I think that, with one exception, no point of view was so impres- 
sive to me as this from the foot of Crescent Fall. I did not wish for 
solitude here, for solitude was in my heart ; I did not wish for dark- 
ness, for everything was in oblivion save that leaping ocean. If ever 
I stood alone with the Infinite, it was here. The gentlemen of our 
party ascended the rocks just below the fall. The mist so shrouded 
them from sight that they appeared to us like faintly defined shadows 
— spectres wrapped up in shrouds of vapor. When they rejoined 
us, Br. B. gave us a glowing description of a rainbow which threw 
itself within his grasp — and I, who am always eager in ignis fatuus 
pursuits, begged him to let me go and see it. After some hazardous 
toil over slippery rocks, I stood triumphantly upon the highest, in 
search of the rainbow. Just then the wind changed, and blew the 
spray over us in torrents. We could neither see nor breathe, but 
making our way precipitately back to our natural element, stood 
before our party like two Nereids from the sea. This was my last 
attempt to get hold of the rainbow. 

" In the evening we stood upon Terrapin Tower, erected just above 
the centre of Crescent Fall. The moon shone out clearly, and lighted 
her holy covenant bow above the waters. Nothing in nature is so 
purely ethereal as the lunar bow. The tints were so faint and soft, 
they might be deemed the spirits of colors, from which the embodi- 
ments had passed away. The arch was at first broken, but soon 
became distinct and perfect. The fascination of the scene is utterly 
indescribable. Moonlight is bewildering in a — brickyard; — what 
shall we say of it, then, at Niagara? 

" From Terrapin Tower we re-crossed the bridge to Iris Island, 
ascended its steep bank, and took the path which leads up the river. 
At first we walk along on the summit of a steep precipice, many feet 
above the river ; — the bed of the river grows higher and higher, till 
we come at last to a sweet little cascade which leaps down between 
Moss and Iris Islands, and goes dancing on like an infant to its moth- 
er's arms. The scene here, by moonlight, is one of entrancing soft- 
ness and beauty. The grandeur is all gone by ; the brain, wearied 
with its efforts to grasp the magnificence and glory of the giant cata- 
ract, yields itself to the dreamy loveliness which meets the view on 
every side ; the only sound is a deep, calm, steady rush, as of lofty 
winds through a forest top ; and, subdued by a thousand sweet and 
sacred influences, the heart sends forth a tribute of tears, and feels 
that it is purified for many an after hour. 



MEMOIK. 53 

" On Saturday morning, we crossed to the Canada side. The view 
is very imposing from the boat up the river. Probably there is not a 
finer point of observation than this, for here we have tlie whole at one 
glance. Ascending a winding road up the precipitous bank, we turn 
to the left, and after a little walk, find ourselves standing upon Table 
Rock. This is the most celebrated point of view, but owing to pre- 
vious excitement, I do not think it struck me so impressively as sev- 
eral others. The longer I stood here, however, the more irresistible 
became the fascination. There was a strong impulse to fall in with 
the mighty current, and sleep forever at the foot of Niagara. 

"Having been provided with suitable dresses and a guide, Br. 
Balch and I prepared to pass ' behind the veil' — in other words, 
under the Great Fall to Termination Rock, a distance of two hun- 
dred and thirty feet. The roar and fury of the wind rushing out to 
meet one at the entrance, is somewhat formidable, and not a little 
strength is required to stand up against the combined assaults of 
spray and hurricane, and the intrigues of slippery and treacherous 
footholds. The path is quite narrow, and through fear of crowding 
my guide quite oft' the rocks into the fearful abyss, I shrunk closely 
to the wall, till the torrents came upon me in such fury 1 was in dan- 
ger of suffocation ; and had not my colored friend drawn me very 
gallantly to his side, I am not sure I should have been alive to tell 
my tale. We found, on turning to look for Br. B., that he had disap- 
peared. Had he fallen 1 It was a fearful thought — I turned a 
terrified look at my guide, but he only smiled mischievously, and 
replied that at any rate we would goto Termination Rock. Resolved 
not to be daunted by the singularity of my situation, and the awful 
fury and thunder of the elements around me, I hastened onward, 
catching a breath when it was practicable, and when it was not, 
thinking of the dearest friends I have in the world as though it were 
for the last time. Just as my resolution began to fail, and I was 
going to be humble enough to solicit my guide to return, he exclaimed, 
pulling me forward, 'Here is Termination Rock! we can go no 
further.' I had not dreamed of being so near the end of my watery 
pilgrimage, and having learned some lessons of distrust in my deal- 
ings whh guides, &c., I looked at him rather sceptically and queried, 
'Is it?' To convince me, he placed my hand upon the rock, and 
having felt around it, to be sure I could get no further, I turned away 
satisfied, and hastened back to earth ; not, however, without pausing 
a few moments to consider the actual terror of my situation. To 
stand thus in a narrow and slippery pathway, walled on one side by 
a stupendous ledge alive with torrents, and on the other by an impen- 
5* 



54 MEMOIR. 

etrable mass of rushing foam, which shuts out even the light of 
heaven, seemed to me no ordinary or safe position. Beside other 
impediments to breathing, there is a strong smell of sulphur within 
this cave, which occasioned some wag, in one of the Albums, to ex- 
press his belief that it is the entrance to the infernal regions. I must 
not forget to observe that, in emerging to daylight, we found our 
friend safely awaiting our return, after which he also entered and 
explored an arm's reach beyond me. 

" But time and space forbid a longer description of my adventures. 
There are many scenes of interest disconnected with the falls, which 
I have visited — such as Lundy's Lane battle-ground. Church Service 
of Her Majesty's 93d Regiment — (a most imposing scene by the 
way,) the Whirlpool, Mineral Springs, and the like. This morning 
I have been out to take a farewell view. A most glorious rainbow 
came down upon the waters as a token and a benediction to encour- 
age me onward ; and with a heart of heaviness, and a melancholy 
feeling that Niagara was forever lost to me, I turned slowly and sadly 
away." 

"Towanda, Oct. 15, 1840. 

"Br. Bacon: — Immediately after writing you my last, I was 
present at the United States Convention of Universalists, at Auburn, 
N. Y. But as you have long since received and published the 
records of the meeting, it will be of little use for me, at this late hour, 
to give you a long description of its proceedings. It had its social 
joys as usual, greetings of ancient friends, and congratulations of 
such as had been previous strangers ; warm graspings of wann hands, 
and cordial utterances of cordial hearts. The services were all in- 
teresting, and of a nature to elevate and refine. Strangers who were 
present will remember with gratitude the hospitality of the friends at 
Auburn, no less than the beauty and tranquillity of the place. They 
will remember, too, the happy throng of worshippers who gathered 
about the sanctuaries, and were fed with the bread of life from 
heaven. 

" It is a pretty ride from Auburn to Ithaca. The road is almost a 
perfect level through the whole distance, with a wide extent of rich 
country on one side, and the wooded shores of the lake upon the other. 
From the summit of the hill at Ithaca I had the most delightful view 
I ever witnessed. The sweet Lake of Cayuga, winding away among 
the wild old hills, and reflecting the face of heaven with all its smiles ; 
the gallant ' Simeon De Witt,' ploughing the azure tide, and the 
pretty village, with its elegant edifices rising upon the hill-side, made 
one of the sweetest pictures in the world. 



MEMOIR. 55 

" Owego is another fine village ; and here I was first introduced to 
the beautiful Susquehannah. You will laugh at my epithets of ' fine,' 
and ' sweet,' and ' beautiful,' but I assure you there is no getting along 
without them in description. Were I in a mood of poetry this morn- 
ing, I would sing the charms of the winding stream and the giant 
hills ; but to speak of the Susquehannah and the AUeghanies even 
in sober prose will be enough — one must judge from their very names 
that they are beautiful. 

" The Susquehannah is a shallow river, but its bed is bright with 
sand and glittering pebbles, and all along its course it is broken and 
turned aside, at intervals, by little grassy islands, shaded with moss- 
grown trees, and carpeted with flowers ; a thousand silvery creeks 
run singing to its bosom, wUd tales of their mountain homes ; and 
the stout old sycamores bend their vernal brows to the music of its 
eternal hymn. Dear Susquehannah ! I have learned to love thee as 
I love my own native streams ; and if the favorites of nature may be 
adopted, thou shall have an equal dowry of my life-long affection. 

" The AUeghanies are a bold, rich line of mountains, standing out 
in their beautiful pride, and curving the gentle river at their will. 
Sometimes they thwart its course, and send it back for many a rug- 
ged mile to some wilder and more romantic pass, leaving the soft 
vales, that would have loved its companionship, to the tamer converse 
of the birds and winds. 

" Dense forests, that man has never yet dared disturb, make their 
dwellings upon these mountains ; and while I now watch them from 
my window, it is after the spirit of autumn has thrown over them her 
'coat of many colors,' — a token of her love. The mellowness of 
October sunshine is not the only light that makes them glorious. On 
a cool, moonlight evening, the white mists will rise up like a spirit 
f/om the river, and bend over them, wrapping them in a mantle, ethe- 
real as the ' drapery of dreams.' 

" It was a warm day in October, when I ascended the most beauti- 
ful of the Towanda hills. It was but a path, and a very rugged one, 
through wiiich Julia guided our patient quadruped. Over the stones, 
and ledges, and rotten timbers, that obstructed our way, the good 
old fellow toiled witli willing steps, encouraged by the approval wiiich 
reached him from behind, and eager for the rest which he flattered 
himself was before him. Sometimes we were open to tiie burning 
rays of the sun, and sometimes we passed beneath the shade of fra- 
grant pines, where the grass grew soft and green, and the ruby-like 
winter-berries gleamed among the faded leaves. The wood-aster, in 
its morning garb of purple, stood bowed like a desolate child of sor- 
row — the last of the race of flowers. The soft wind crept beneath 



56 MEMOIR, 

the scalloped oak-leaves that lay crumbling upon the ground, or shook 
the silvery aspen that stood in its light, coquettish garb beside the 
solemn pine, or whispered mysterious words to the witch-hazel in its 
autumn dress of green and gold. 

" The summit reached at length, we bridled Rosinante to a young 
sapling, and bufFetted our way through the tangled bushes to the 
brow of the mountain. There is a ledge of red mineral crowning this 
hill, and it overhangs its perpendicular sides with a bold threatening 
posture, which makes one shrink from passing along the base, lest he 
be crushed by its giant leap. Upon this platform, which looks as 
though it might have been the stand from which the Titans delivered 
their martial orations when they warred with the Thunderer, we sat 
down and had communion with the universe. 

" Still, solemn, glorious, was the whole world. The air seemed 
palpable with richness. The wild caw ! caw ! of the lonely crow, 
and the rustle of the tree-tops were melody enough. We did not 
care to speak — to live was all we asked. From the recesses of the 
hills above us, came down their smiling daughter — bright Susque- 
hannah — opening her arms to embrace a little tree-fringed isle, and 
hastening onward again, holding it fast to her bosom, and singing it 
to rest. The fertile plains, and slopes, clusters of white houses, the 
bridge that spanned the river with its snowy arch, the mountains 
vicinal and remote, made up the scene we loved. Peace be with it 
forever ! 

" I have spoken of the beautiful and majestic scenery of northern 
Pennsylvania ; will it be amiss to add one word respecting the hospi- 
tality of its inhabitants? At many of the taverns in this part of the 
country, I have noticed upon the sign-boards the inviting terms, 
' Traveller'' s Rest,' ' Stranger's Home,' &c. These terms might well 
be applied to every dwelling which I visited ; and it is characteristic 
of the villages here, that if strangers enter them for a transient resi- 
dence, they are immediately waited on by the villagers, and earnestly 
invited to their houses. Parties are given in succession by them all, 
which the stranger understands as a tribute of respect to himself. 
This is true hospitality, and shows a commendable cultivation of kind 
feelings. What is a little remarkable, also, religious differences are 
not regarded, but the stranger is welcomed, be he Jew or Gentile, 
bond or free. 

" Utica, Oct. 20. 
"Jolting along in a stage-coach over one of those frightful ' Nar- 
rows,' which are met so often among the Alleghanies, we suddenly 
came in sight of the valley of Sheshequin. 



MKMOIR. 57 

" ' There,' said Julia, ' is my childhood's home ; is it not beauti- 
ful V 

" ' Very, very beautiful,' was the reply, as I turned to gaze enchant- 
ingly upon its loveliness ; and the vvoids of Moore came instantly to 
mind, with a peculiar power and expressiveness : 

' There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet, 
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet ; 
Oh ! the last ray of feeling and life must depart, 
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart !' 

" Below us, far down a precipice, lined with shrubs and Irish huts, 
ran the silvery river of our love. In its bosom rested a pretty island, 
with slant trees reclining above the waves. A sand-bar reached from 
this to the shore, forming, in the dry seasons, an excellent path, and 
always sufficiently near to the surface of the river to tempt the feet 
of an untrammelled mountain maiden, in her search for poetry and 
peace. This little isle was a favorite retreat of the girl-poet, in the 
wild luxuriance of her early life. Here the shadows of the green 
trees fell soothingly upon her brow, and here her e3'es gazed down 
into the shadowed water, and found a rich similitude of their own 
soft, melancholy depths. 

" ' The vale of Sheshequin is as beautiful as Wyoming, only much 
smaller,' remarked my friend. ' It is a comparison often instituted by 
travellers.' 

" ' I should love it better for being small,' was the rejoinder; 'I 
love little scenes and little things the world all over. There is sublim- 
ity in space, but beauty is made up of little parts. A tree, a knoll 
of flowers, a singing brook, a bird, a butterfly, a bee — are not these 
a pictured I love things 7iear; a wavy horizon is beautiful, but give 
me to dwell in the shelter of hills, where the far-off is not known. 
I love not distant things ; fancy must bring the beloved ever near me, 
or I cannot feel for them, and they are forgotten.' 

" From the river at Sheshequin, smooth, rich lands slope off to the 
mountains, giving place to a pretty village of white houses, separ- 
ated by cultivated farms. The hills are chiefly wooded to the sum- 
mit ; one or two only are bare to the sunbeams, breaking open the 
forest to a pleasing variety of scene. A deep gorge in one of the 
mountains affords a channel to the ' wild mountain stream,' so 
sweetly sung by ' I know ivho,^ — and is filled up with grand old for- 
est trees, and darkness like the witchery of twilight. 

" Leaving Sheshequin with a sigh, we were hurried on our winding 
way to the precincts of the Empire state. I shall never forget one 
scene that broke on us at night, as we drew near to Owego. We 



58 MEMOIR. 

were upon the banks of the river. Far up its winding course rose a 
hill, and upon the brow of that hill rose a light — a yellow gorgeous 
light, oblong at first, and flaming like a fire. Its reflection in the 
river was like a lance of silver quivering in the unknown depths of 
the night. The stars looked on in silence. Dimly defined, the black 
trees stood giant-like against the sky — virgins with their lamps, 
awaiting the bridegroom. The company in the stage were silent, and 
we adored. 

" A half-day on Lake Cayuga — what shall be said of it? What 
shall be said of the broad green lake, with its varied shores? Seated 
upon the deck of the elegant steamboat, chatting as we went, Julia and " 
I passed one of the richest days of our lives. Silence was upon the 
waters, and mirrored in their green depths lay the rainbow-dyed wood- 
lands, that fringed the shores. Pretty villages, with their white-church 
spires and green elms, intervened between the wilder country of for- 
ests, charming us with a continued variety of rich and beautiful scenes. 
The wild ducks were sailing along near the shores, or flapping their 
white wings above the waves. All the world was shut out — we were 
on a little sea alone — alone, save the company of travellers that 
wandered about us on deck, making up little groups, on which we 
occasionally commented sagely, calling to our aid the philosophies of 
Lavater and Gall, and arriving ever at incontrovertible conclusions. 

" At Auburn we seated ourselves in the cars for Utica. The 
travel on the Western rail-road is immense. The bustle at the car- 
houses is sufficient to craze a stoic, would the anxiety of looking after 
baggage allow one to be disturbed by it. The only incident that dis- 
turbed the serenity of our ride was of a painful character, yet one of 
frequent occurrence. Four sheep were run over, and had their legs 
broken, and their bodies sadly mutilated. Poor things ! they looked 
at us so reproachfully as we passed, I had no heart for the remainder 
of the ride. 

" Our sojourn at Utica has been in a sick chamber ; poor Julia the 
sufferer, and I the nurse. Thank Heaven, she is recovering, and the 
cloud is passing off from my soul. I return with her to Pennsylva- 
nia. You may hear from me once more ere my return to Massachu- 
setts. Very truly your sister." 

"Cliaton, Nov. 8, 1840. 
"Br. Bacon: — When last I wrote you, I was on the point of 
starting for Pennsylvania, with an invalid friend. Nature seemed 
kind to us, for never shone there a fairer autumn day, than that on 
which we rode to Syracuse. The rate at which they travel on the 
western railroads, allows a passenger, if he have a quick eye for the 



MEMOIR. 59 

beautiful, to note whatever of interest lies along the way. I well 
remember one little scene which brought me a strange thrill of home- 
sickness, it was so like the Indian summer landscapes of dear New 
England. ' A nut-brown slope,' glowing in the yellow beams of the 
setting sun, crowned wath lordly trees, whose vestures were of green 
and crimson, and gold, and carpeted with the withered leaves of the 
walnut and the fading sycamore, glided past me like the fairy pic- 
tures of a magic lantern, yet not without leaving an impression of 
beauty upon my mind, which long years will fail to obliterate — an 
impression so clear and bright, and so very true to the sweet original. 

" I dreaded coming once more to those formidable mountain roads 
to which I had so complacently said adieu some two weeks before. 
We reached Towanda, however, without accident, but instead of the 
warm welcome and warm dinner we were expecting, we found the 
house locked, and our friends all absent. We learned, after several 

fruitless inquiries, that Dr. had gone in quest of us that morning, 

and had missed us on the route. Here was one dilemma. Another 
was how to get admittance into the house. Thank fortune ! there 
are more entrances than one, as many a rogue has discovered ; and 
we seemed, in this instance, to be illuminated with a portion of the 
lucky sagacity belonging to that ancient race. 

" Autumn is a coquettish dame, after all. She attires herself in 
magnificent beauty, and cheats us into confidence by her bland and 
serious benignity ; but no sooner do we acknowledge ourselves her 
humble slaves forever, than she knits her matronly countenance into 
gloomy frowns, and assails us with all the virulence of a shrew. I 
was just beginning to flatter myself that I was an especial favorite, 
and in this iiappy state of feeling took seat in the pretty carriage 
alluded to in my last letter, for a thirty miles' ride to Owego. For a 
few hours the sun smiled on us faintly, but about noonday the white, 
feathery flakes were covering us with mantles beautiful as ermine. 
Our route was through what is usually termed a new country ; burnt 
stumps were yet remaining in the fields, and log cabins (realities, 
and no shams, as Carlyle would say) peeped out from every bit of 
pine woods that had been suffered to survive the general vandalism. 
Tlic only beautiful things I saw in all that ride were a few green 
hemlocks crowned with chaplets of new-fallen snow. 

" Every little village that we passed containing a half-dozen dwell- 
ing houses, was ornamented witli two ' liberty poles,' one of hickory, 
the other of pine. A ' log cabin' was usually perched upon the top 
of the latter, reminding me of the house which Jack the giant-killer 
is said to have found at the top of his bean vine. We passed by all 



60 MEMOIR. 

the taverns bearing coonskin signs, or other political insignias, and 
stopped at a quiet looking domicile which seemed professedly neutral. 

" A country tavern is sui generis in character. There is no other 
house of refuge at all similar. It may, perhaps, be worth the while 
to give a slight description. The room into which I was conducted 
seemed to be kitchen, dining-room and saloon-general. There was 
no appearance of paint about the house, but the yellow deal boards 
were clean and polished, and the floor bore traces of soap and sand. 
Lines were strung across the ceiling, on which hung circles of pump- 
kin, strings of apple, skeins of yarn, and newly dyed stockings. A 
bed stood in a recess beside the chimney, half hidden by a checked 
curtain which hung before it. A huge log rested on the iron animals 
appropriated to such service, and ashes lay scattered profusely over 
the blue stone hearth. 

" The landlady was a stout, rosy-cheeked young woman, just en- 
tered upon her matrimonial career. She rose and curtsied to me as I 
entered, offered me a chair, and bustled about to disengage me from 
my hat and cloak. Having performed all the kind offices which my 
situation demanded, she informed me, with a simpering sweetness, 
that she should build a fire in the other room for the new folks — she 
never could bear to have them about where she was cooking. 

" The process of ignition having been successfully performed in the 
'other room,' I was invited to take a seat with the 'men folks.' 
This honorable apartment proved to be the bar-room. On the posts 
of the bar were pasted notices of ' mass meetings,' ' truths for the 
people,' etc., etc., in large capitals, pointed off with 'marks of admi- 
ration,' as we used to call them at school. One forlorn little sheet 
lay upon the bench, filled with that incendiary trash which takes the 
name of jiolitics. I have forgotten now to which ' party' it be- 
longed. The ' men-folks,' who proved to be merely my co?npagnon 
du voyage, offered me a low arm-chair which stood before the fire. 
The landlord soon appeared with his hands full of mammoth apples, 
evidently belonging to the c\^ssoi None-so-goods, Scek-jio-furlhers, or 
Ne-flus-ultras, which he laid temptingly before us. An economical 
expedient, thought I, to give us apples Sc/bre dinner. After chatting 
awhile, and getting comfortably warm after a tedious ride in the 
snow and wind, our alimentiveness was gratified by a summons to 
dinner. 

" This meal had a character of its own. I noticed a struggling 
smile upon the countenance of my friend as he passed me a plate of 
hot cream cakes. ' Our host,' he remarked, ' is one of those tender- 
hearted men, who think it a sin to kill poor innocent animals for food.' 



MEMOIR. 61 

A cup of tea, two varieties of sweetmeats, a loaf of tea-cake, and an 
apology for pumpkin pie, completed the course : much such a table 
as we find in a Yankee farm-house at tea-time. 

" Have you ever, Br. Bacon, travelled in New York, in late au- 
tumn or early spring — the season of mud ? If not, it wUl be quite 
impossible to give you an idea of the condition of the roads at these 
times. I started from Owego in the stage at two o'clock in the 
morning, and rode till one of the next morning, over what is called 
one of the best thoroughfares in the state. But such joltings and 
thumpings were never before endured. A truce to rich soils, thought 
I, if we must take such nmd with them. Give me the sand and 
gravel of New England — the hard roads and rough old hills. How 
local prejudices will cling to one through all wanderings and in all 
places ! How much better everything is in our own country than 
elsewhere ! The rivers are so much clearer, the flowers are so much 
more abundant, and the people, too, are so much more moral and 
intelligent. I have vexed myself, *Qany a time during my journey, 
by breaking off in the middle of a sentence, and losing all recollection 
of my subject, at hearing the name ' Massachusetts' spoken, by some 
fellow-passenger in a distant part of the steamboat or car, while can- 
vassing the probable results of election. 

" I do not know whether the Grecian mythology contains any 
class of divinities presiding over mud-holes, but I do think I might 
have stood for a personification of a mud-nymph, on my arrival at this 
village last week. Fortunately, there are some sagacious people in 
j this world, who do not judge of character from appearance, or I 
should have been mistaken for a mere earth-worm ; whereas, they 
treated me as though they thought I had, at least, some aspirations 
after a soul. 

" For geological research, I know no portion of our country more 
interesting than New York. Fossils and petrifactions abound 
throughout the state. Spars, crj'stals, and ores are of every-day 
occurrence. In a ramble of yesterday, one of my companions found 
a perfect impression of a butterfly upon shale. Following the wind- 
ings of a delightful little stream, we came to a ledge of ironized stone, 
whose surfaces were everywhere impressed with shells, worms, and 
leaves. The specimens I bore away were more precious to me than 
so many lumps of a far richer mineral. They are building the State 
; Lunatic Asylum, at Ulica, of vermicular limestone, brought from an 
I extensive quarry at Trenton. It seems to be a mass of petrified 
f angle-worms, inwrought with lime and shale. Surely, there are 
6 



62 MEMOIK. 

' sermons in stones ;' and for magnificent speculations who could ask 
a richer field than these vast quarries of petrified animals? Under- 
stand me — I speak oi mental speculations, not ' out of the pocket.' 

" There is a good deal of fine local story about Clinton, and some one 
of antiquarian taste should take measures to rescue it from oblivion. 
Many reminiscences of the powerful Oneidas are of melancholy and 
romantic interest. Scott would have desired no richer material than 
is furnished in the history of the Kirkland family, to have woven a 
tale of thrilling interest and beautiful originality. The old family 
mansion standing among trees upon the hill-side, and the small 
enclosure of graves behind, where repose, in one still, holy slumber, 
the ashes of the beloved missionary, his beautiful and eccentric 
daughter, and the old Oneida chief, would present outlines for a rich 
picture from the pen of the antiquarian wizard of the north. There 
is talent here which should be at work upon some of these fine old 
fragments. 

" Utica, Nov. 15. 

" Prithee excuse me, should my ideas prove somewhat languid this 
early morn, for the evening before last I rode some eight or ten miles 
to a wedding, and last evening was again in the excitement of a 
party. A wedding is not so rare an occurrence as to require a formal 
description, but I assure you the ride which took us there, was some- 
thing altogether novel and unique — to me, I mean, for the residents 
are accustomed to such things. We travelled, at the rate of about 
two miles an hour, through a succession of fathomless mud-holes, 
alternating with corduroy roads, (which are constructed, you know, 
of logs thrown across the street, with little regard to equality of sur- 
face,) and in a portion of the day when our best guide was the light 
of our eyes. But with good drivers, and good resolution, we arrived 
safely, the very hour we were wanted ; for upon our arrival depended 
the tying of the knot. They do these things sans cere/nonie in New 
York. A two weeks' publishment is not considered necessary to 
inform the public of the matrimonial intentions of the parties ; and I 
doubt w^hether in New England it is not somewhat superfluous. I 
am sure, at least, that the public usually receive the information 
without the assistance of a town-clerk ; whether it be always authen- 
tic, may, perhaps, be questioned. 

" The ' party ^ alluded to was given by Br. T. D. C , to the 

young people of his society, on the eve of his departure from their 
midst. It was a social little gathering of warm-hearted friends ; and 
the kindness with which they spoke of their pastor, and the regret 
which they manifested for his loss, were evidences of the existence 



MEMOIR. 63 

of those qualities of mind and heart which are so necessary to endear 
a minister to his people. 

" New York City, Nov. 20. 

" I have been a sojourner in this city of Manhatta<^ as Irving would 
choose to designate it, for the space of five days. As a city I like 
New York, principally for two things : the width of its streets, and 
the hospitality of its inhabitants. I am not designing to ' puff' the 
good denizens of that goodly city ; but I do not like to pass by in silence 
what seems to me a distinguishing and very beautiful feature. I love 
the free, cordial, sincere manners of the people, so little restrained by 
ceremony, and yet so truly polite. I love many things about them, 
which I have not space here to specify. 

" On Monday evening my friends took me to the Rotunda, where 
Catherwood is exhibiting his beautiful panoramas of Rome and the 
Bay of Isles. I think I here first fully realized the magic power of 
that art which can throw an illusion upon the senses too strong for 
reason to dispel. To feel myself in any other place than Rome, 
while gazing upon that wonderful representation, was impossible. 
Did not the narrow streets lay directly beneath me, with their bronze 
statues, and their processions of human beings ? Were not the crumb- 
ling ruins and isolated arches standing before me upon the hill-side ? 
Saw I not the Palace of the Caesars, the splendid ruins of the Colis- 
eum, and the magnificent Church of St. Peter ? The ' golden Tiber' 
— lay it not there like a thing of life, winding about amidst the 
Roman hills, and losing itself in the hazy distance 1 Saw I not also 
the distant Alps, the Apennines more vicinal, and the Tarpeian rock 
almost at my very feet ? 

" We had a musical soiree at Br. Sawyer's last evening. The 
performers were all foreigners — German, Italian, and Spanish. 
The rich, mellow voices of the singers, the magical execution of the 
pianist, and the low dulcet tones of the guitar, were enough to sub- 
due even so unmusical a piece of workmanship as myself. We had 
a sweet song from the Italian. The only words I could interpret 
were ' cara,^ and ' amore.'' 

" Universalism seems very prosperous in this city. 'All things 
work together for good to those who love God,' it is said. ' New 
Jerusalem' certainly looks not very desolate in the absence of the 
deserter ; neither does ' Mystery Babylon' seem miraculously illu- 
minated. A few shouts of defiance have been recently heard from 
some valiant Babylonish sentinel, and occasionally a little trumpeter 
sends forth a warning blast — ' Beware ! beware of the fatal con- 
sequences!' But still bravely and beautifully waves the banner of 



64 MEMOIR. 

love from Zion's tower, and on it is blazoned this glorious motto — 
' Glory to God in the highest ! On earth peace, and good will to 
men.'' 

" In the ties oithis gospel, your sister." 

" Shirley Village, Dec. 25, 1840. 

" Br. Bacon : — Perhaps you, and the readers of the Repository, 
will not object to a Christmas letter, even if it be not received before 
the middle of February, since it is not designed to be an occasional 
letter, appropriate to the day, but simply a collection of reminiscences 
of by-gone things. 

" I have been reflecting somewhat upon the propriety of occupying 
the pages of the Repository with personal adventures, for I very well 
know that circumstances, of great import to one's self, are frequently 
of little interest to others. I have decided, however, to conclude the 
account of my journey, by describing a few scenes and incidents 
which I encountered after leaving New York, knowing that you, at 
least, and a few other personal friends, will be gratified by the de- 
tails. 

" There had been a furious storm the night preceding my depart- 
ure from the city. The tumult of the contending elements, tossing 
the shutters of my windows to and fro, and the excitement of mind 
naturally attendant upon the prospect of a return to my own home 
after an absence of three months, kept me awake the greater portion 
of the night. Added to these, there was a large fire opposite one of 
the windows of my chamber ; the bells were ringing, firemen were 
shouting, timbers were falling, and the blaze streamed in brightly 
upon my face, leaving me no alternative but to ' cogitate' upon the 
probable consequences of the destruction going on before me. 

" At dawn of day the floods of rain had ceased to pour, and I found 
myself conveyed on board the Nimrod — the latest descendant, I sup- 
pose, of the renowned hunter of old, the mighty founder of mighty 
Babylon. The fog detained us a while in a dubious state of uncer- 
tainty ; but shortly after seven we were ploughing the green waters 
of the ' bay.' The drizzly, murky atmosphere kept us shut up awhile 
in the saloon ; but getting weary of gazing at others, and being gazed 
at in turn, I soon went out upon deck. I had read the morning 
' Journal of Commerce' through, from beginning to end ; not only all 
the statistical reports, steam-ship arrivals, and foreign intelligence, but 
the marriages, deaths, ship-news and advertisements. It was time 
now to ' admire the prospect;' but unfortunately for this anticipated 
resource, the fog entirely obscured the shores of the ' Sound,' and 
the eye had no alternative but to gaze into the mystic depths of the 



MEMOIR. 65 

mist, or follow the up-heaving and down-falling of the gnim-voiced 
waves. Most of us, however, had shortly something of greater per- 
sonal interest to attend to, which required our presence in the cabin. 
Wordsworth has very beautifully described the effect of the motion 
of natural objects upon the spirit and manners of a youthful maiden : 

' Nor shall she fail to see, 
Even in the motions of the storm, 
Grace that shall mould the maiden's form 
By silent sympathy.' 

" This is certainly a very exquisite passage, let the critics say what 
they will of the ' Lakers ;' but for once I am free to confess, that ' the 
motions of the storm' produced anything but a refining influence upon 
either form or temper ; and all the ' beauty' that was ' born of mur- 
muring sound,' passed into our faces in a hue of utter paleness. AVe 
remained below deck till we arrived at Bridgeport. 

" I was expecting to meet a friend here, who was to convey me to 
Massachusetts ; and therefore sat very leisurely watching the crowd in 
iheir bustle for baggage, and their removal into the cars, which stood 
waiting to convey passengers to New Haven. I cast about a few anx- 
ious glances for the familiar face of my friend, but perceived none but 
strange and singular countenances. There is always a good deal that 
is droll in a throng of human faces. I heard it remarked once by a 
sensible gentleman, that though Cruikshank's illustrations of ' Boz,' 
and Johnston's cuts for the ' Comic Almanac,' would at first thought 
be pronounced extravagant caricatures, he had noticed in crowds as 
much deformity of feature, distortion of form, and ludicrousness of 
expression, as were exhibited in these singular pictures. He may be 
correct in a degree, but I think not wholly so, for we never see a 
nose brought quite in contact with a chin, nor a forehead receding 
suddenly from the eyes. And so far as my own perception of the 
ludicrous may testify, there is more of the truly comical in slight con- 
tortions and irregularities, than in very perceptible deformities ; for 
where the sense of the beautiful is wholly outraged, or where our 
feelings of compassion are called into action, we lose sight of the 
ludicrous in emotions of disgust or of pity. 

" Two hours I remained in the saloon of the boat, awaiting the 
appearance of my friend. The crowd had long since dispersed. Tiie 
crew of the boat were occupied in washing the deck, and the steward- 
ess stood near me scrubbing the windows. The rain came down in 
torrents, notwithstanding that the sky was clear in the west and 
south, and the sun was shining brightly. ' Is there a tavern near?' 
I inquired of my sociable companion, who kindly sympathized with 
6* 



66 MEMOIR. 

me in my disappointment ; for I began to be solicitous for a home as 
night drew near. ' O, yes, two or three,' was the reply ; ' there is 
one right across the street ; Mr. and Mrs. H. keeps that. They 're 
very nice folks.' I felt that her recommendation was a good one, for 
if a poor black woman had reason to call them ' nice folks,' they 
must be kind of heart. 

" As I was about bidding adieu to ' Nimrod,' I met the captain, 
who courteously offered me an umbrella and a guide, and in due form 
I was ushered into the public parlor of the W**** Hotel. I had 
now found a home for the remainder of the day and night, and had a 
disposition to obey the scriptural injunction, ' Take no thought for the 
morrow.' Mine hostess soon entered, and betraying a very pardona- 
ble Yankee curiosity to know my origin and destination, I generously 
made known so much of it as would enable her to give me sotae in- 
formation of my best route to Massachusetts. Nothing satisfactory 
being offered, I spent the evening reading stories in the ' Lady's 
Book,' and chatting a little with the kind-hearted landlady. 

" Bridgeport is a very fine little village, as I discovered the next 
morning, on my way back to the boat ; and I did not regret the 
opportunity which was afforded me of seeing it. I had formed a very 
sudden resolution of returning to New York, and taking another boat 
to Norwich the same day. 

" It was my only possible means of reaching home by Thanksgiv- 
ing, and I had a childish desire of being present at this domestic fes- 
tival. It was a rich and beautiful day. The ocean slept like a 
weary child, and the shores of the Sound, in spite of the desolations 
of the frost-spirit in the interior, were still green and sunny. We 
had a gay company of ladies, dressed in the rich velvet hats and 
shawls of the season, with graceful plumes and comfortable little 
muffs, and it seemed to me no idle admiration to scan these curious 
manufactures of the artisans of fashion. 

" The captain and waiters of the boat, recognizing me as having 
been on board the preceding day, were uncommonly courteous and 
attentive, and proffered me every necessary assistance in getting to 
the other boat. I should feel myself unjust to neglect giving my tes- 
timony in favor of the African character, as it exists in the waiters 
both in the hotels and steamboats where I have had an opportunity 
for observation. There is a propriety, gentleness, and sincere kind- 
ness of heart about them, which may be said to form a distinguishing 
trait of their character, and I know not that I have been more keenly 
touched by any kindness I have ever experienced, than by many little 
unsolicited offices of courtesy from the children of the sunny clime of 
Africa. 



MEMOIR. 6T 

" Having made a transfer of myself and chattels to the ' Charter 
Oak,' I felt very secure and happy, and began to think a steamboat a 
very decent home under favorable circumstances. I had two hours to 
myself before the time appointed for leaving the wharf; but as I was 
not familiar with the streets of the great emporium, I chose to remain in 
the boat. Taking up a Bible which lay upon the table, I found written 
upon a blank leaf several denunciatory quotations from Watts, relating 
to 'the day of days, the awful day,' and that beautiful creation of the 
imagination called ' hell,' and warning sinners to flee from the wrath 
to come. I passed the listless moments in scribbling a few verses on 
an opposite page, under the motto, ' As in Adam all die, even so in 
Christ shall all be made alive.' 

" It was very amusing, after the passengers began to assemble, to 
listen to the rival cries of the news-boys. Some of them ran over 
the list of contents, others recommended the low price of their jour- 
nals, and the clamor grew incessantly louder till the bell rang, and 
warned them away. Having passed between the shores of the 
Sound twice within as many days, objects began to look very familiar 
in my third passage ; but I think I never witnessed a more beautiful 
sunset than that which shone over the waters in this November eve. 
I stood a long while at the stern of the boat, watching the strangely 
curdled hues that flickered along the sides of the furrows that 
we cast up as we went, for they were to me new and full of 
beauty. A brilliant rose-color brindled over the rich green, and 
serpentine streaks of gold trickled along the edges of the snow- 
white foam ; the clouds above were gorgeous as is their wont on 
an autumn eve, and the red sun, as though unwilling to withdraw 
the glories of his presence, lingered along the western sky, and cast 
his rosy smile upon the white dwellings which rose up behind the 
evergreens of the island. Sloops and other small craft were glid- 
ing gently up the harbor, the wild geese sported nearer the shores, 
and everything in heaven and on earth, and upon the sea, assumed 
hues and forms, and attitudes of exquisite loveliness and grandeur. 

" At three o'clock in the morning, after a rather hazardous pas- 
sage up the Thames, the boat stops at Norwich, and passengers 
crowd into the cars for Worcester and Boston. We had gone twenty 
miles on the railroad, when suddenly we came to a pause, and an 
oflicer of the cars entered with the pleasing intelligence that one of 
the baggage crates had been lost off the track, and it was necessary 
to send the engine back for it. Two hours we sat not very patiently 
awaiting its return ; but once more on our way, nothing happened to 
disturb our serenity till we were safely deposited in Worcester. 
Twenty-four miles in the stage, over a muddy road, seemed the most 



68 MEMOIR. 

tedious part of my homeward journey, for one's impatience increases 
always as the object of one's wishes is more nearly approached. 

" The heart makes some things beautiful tons — more beautiful 
than the most elaborate workmanship of nature or of art. The affec- 
tions never yet clung to one earthly object without investing it with a 
touching loveliness ; and, indeed, nothing ever yet was beautiful which 
the spirit could not love. I saw in the distance the outline of a fa- 
miliar hill. What grace was there in its gentle undulations, what 
delicacy in its faded hues ! I caught a glimpse of a dancing stream, 
and its tiny sparkles had as strong a sway over the spirit, as ever yet 
had the splendid magnificence of Niagara, the brightest beam of the 
gentle Susquehannah, or the lordly tide of the romantic Hudson. 
And I knew then that though there may be streams of radiant beauty 
wandering abroad o'er all the land, their deep, mysterious spring is in 
the human soul. The bleak and barren highlands were beautiful to 
Scott ; ' If I could yiot look upon the heather once a year,'' said he, ' / 
believe I should die .' ' " 

Of the three following years I have few events to relate. 
Her life flowed on in the ordinary channel, and to outward 
appearance nothing disturbed its peace. But, doubtless, the 
work of spiritual growth was then proceeding ; for our times 
of outward rest are often most fruitful in mental and religious 
experiences. The editing of the "Rose" was continued, and 
she also wrote the usual quantity for other publications, be- 
sides a miniature volume, " The Flower- Vase," consisting 
of original and selected verses, illustrative of the language of 
flowers. She also edited the Poems of Mrs. Scott, and pre- 
fixed it with a memoir. From her correspondence at this time 
I select the following. 

Of an article written by a friend while in great affliction, 
she says : — 

" There is a beautiful spirit in that article, which I have often dwelt 
upon since reading it ; it is the true spirit of our own rich and sunny 
faith, which never seems to us so really beautiful as when smiling in 
the heart of the mourner, and sitting like an angel at the entrance of 
the tomb." 

Of her occupations at this time, she says : — 

" I am leading a very quiet life, this winter, and am quite resuming 
my old habits of seclusion and industry. I have recently added to 



MEMOIR. 69 

my books the ' Family Library,' which now embraces over a hundred 

volumes. Most of them are new to me, and treat upon subjects of 
which I am peculiarly fond — particularly the natural sciences — 
though I am not at all scientific. Of course I have enough reading 
to do. And then I am trying to study French a little — just sufficient 
to translate passably well. I have read a few ' livres ' of Fenelon's 
Telemaque, and a little in Dupaty's ' Lettres sur Italia.' But I am 
a most uncouth and disgraceful translator, I assure you, at present. 
Added to these things, I am trying to write something for the next 
'Rose.' I am getting quite disconsolate over my attempts. I believe 
I never did write so poorly as I am wTiting this winter. I have given 
up reading poetry, I get so vexed with my own rhymes at the ' odious 
comparison.' " 

Of Wordsworth she thus writes : — 

" For your very excellent letter, received through Br. , I can 

hardly thank you enough. What a comfort it is to have such friends, 
who will write so kindly and affectionately, and always so encourag- 
ingly. Every day I thmk how blest I am in this respect, and I really 
cannot imagine how I could get through the world at all without them. 
I suppose, however, I should make friends of the hills, as Wordsworth 
somewhere recommends, and confidants of the flowers and rocks ; 
for to live without some kind of sympathy, either real or imaginary, 
would be impossible. Wordsworth — by the way, I was pleased with 
what you said of him, and have taken to the study of his poetry with a 
new delight, since I know that you are also learning to love it, (an illus- 
tration of the power of sympathy, and of the thirst for it mentioned 
above.) T am sure Wordsworth will do you good — judging from 
my own experience — for there is something in his pure, gentle phi- 
losophy, in his calm thouglit and sunny faith, which acts as a sedative 
to every perturbed feeling of the heart. Every expression is so pure, 
simple, and unaffected, every thought so passionless and intellectual, 
it is a luxury to the mind to follow his meditations. His affections 
seem to be always of the gentlest and most refined character. I do 
not know that there is a trace of passion in anything he has ever 
written ; but yet how much of benevolence and tenderness ! How he 
delights to take up the characters of the lowly and simple, and invest 
them with poetic interest. He enters the by-lanes of life, and res- 
cues from oblivion the humbler specimens of humanity — the Peter 
Bells, the pedlers, idiots, and peasant-girls, that interest his be- 
nevolent mind. He unveils their hearts, and exhibits the operations 
of outward nature upon their moral feelings. He enters into their 
griefs, and interests himself tenderly in all the circumstances of their 



70 MEMOIR. 

fortunes. It is for this expansive benevolence and intellectual purity 
that I so much love him ; and there is also much beauty of language 
to make his poetry a pleasing mental exercise. I think he has great 
felicity of expression at times, an arrangement of words almost un- 
equalled in their harmony and significance." * * * * 

" Do you read Wordsworth? I must talk about books, for it is all 
I have to think of now-a-days, and when I talk about any one, I usu- 
ally select him. I know of no one whom I think ought to be so uni- 
versally admired, about whom there is such a contrariety of opinions. 
Some ridicule him ; and thoso I always set down as having no ' fel- 
low-feeling,' and of course incompetent to perceive his excellences. 
Others, without reason, I think, call him too metaphysical and medi- 
tative. Others, again , love, honor and admire him — and of this latter 
class am I. His ' Excursion,' long as it is, is full of beautiful, gentle, 
refining morality. It is ethics in verse — and most musical verse it 
is, too, — ^ sweet, lulling, and full of tenderness. But I have no room 
to eulogize, — and eulogize I shall, if I keep on." 

Her confidence in her own power does not increase. She 
writes thus to a friend : — 

" I think I never before succeeded so little to my own satisfaction, 
as now. There is such an unattainable excellence constantly before 
me in the writings of the great and gifted, that my pen falters in 
every line it would trace. My versification is all tame, spiritless; 
my prose seems either too simple, or too artificial ; in short, I am 
dissatisfied with all my efforts ; and for that reason particularly desire 
assistance." 

To Mrs. Scott, now very ill, she writes : — 

" You must not think I was not alarmed and very sorry to hear of 
your illness, because I have allowed more than a week to pass with- 
out answering your letter ; indeed, I was greatly grieved at the tidings, 
but glad that you were able to give them to me yourself. I cannot 
but hope you are much better, ere this, and able in part, at least, to 
resume the duties and the enjoyments of health. Poor Julia ! you 
have a hard lot of it, to endure so much in the way of physical suffer- 
ing, and so much, too, of mental trial. Yet how much blest above 
many are you, in the abundant consolations of our pure religion. Oh, 
my friend, I may say to you and with you, what in this wide and 
erring world would be pleasant, or even supportable, without the 
comforts and energies of our holy and immaculate faith 1 Every day 
does it not grow brighter, and stronger, and more consoling ? Who 



MEMOIR. 71 

•would ever love vi'ithout it, — and who could live and not love? I 
cannot understand how those can endure the burden of life, who place 
their dearest hopes, their boundless affections where they dare not feel 
they may have an eternal rest." 

The approach of spring draws from lier the following : — 

" Springs has come again at last, and I am feeling its influence in 
every thought. I know not how the first vernal days may affect you 
in the city, but for me the year has nothing more delightful than its 
first softening airs and singing birds. Spring brings me headaches, and 
lassitude of limb, but with these a spiritual delight, that is a threefold 
compensation. A flock of little birds came about the house on Valen- 
tine's day — their wedding-day, you know, — and have remained ever 
since, singing the sweetest little melodies you ever heard." 

She writes thus to a friend who is oppressed by discourage- 
ments : — 

" No one knows better how to feel for you in seasons of melancholy 
than I, being constitutionally subject to frequent and unconquerable 
depression of spirits, like that of which you speak. I am very sorry for 
you, knowing too well, that of all sufferings nothing is more difficult 
to be endured, — nothing more life-wearying in its effects. 1 know 
your confinement and cares must be very great, a species of martyr- 
dom at which I fancy I should prove no heroine, having, from my 
youth up, led the wild bird-life of which you give a reminiscence in 
your little poem. But though this may be the gayer, I do not con- 
sider it the nobler, life. Toil, self-sacrifice, and devotion to those we 
love, as well as to the general good, are our higher destiny ; and though 
the air may be colder there, it is but to make the spirit hardier, that 
it may take bolder and stronger flights toward the Eternal." 

And thus, to a young friend in the ministry : — 

" I am glad to hear that you have so pleasant a location. I trust 
it may be a long and happy one, if it so suit the pleasure of Heaven. 
That you will do good, I doubt not ; and I presume the responsibili- 
lies of^ a pastor's charge will be favorable to many yet unawakened 
energies of your mind. The consciousness of important duties, and 
their claims upon the intellect and the heart, are of most essential 
service in the fbrmalion of a great and good character. Particularly 
are they good, though difficult, for the young and inexperienced : and 
though we sometimes may feel bowed down with the burden of cares, 
there will be many an after hour in which we shall bless God that 
we have been tried." 



72 MEMOIR. 

In a letter written. December 22d, she gives a domestic 
picture : — 

" I really wish you c6uld make me a visit this winter, I am so 
comfortable ; and that you may give your ' pictures' all possible 
vraisemblance, I will furnish you with a few outlines. Our sitting- 
room is what was last summer our dining-room, and has undergone 
no other alteration than the addition of a striped carpet, (to gratify my 
love of colors,) and the loss of one of the book-cases, which belonged 
to my new-married brother. Here my sisters and I, with a good fire 
in our little stove, enjoy almost uninterrupted tranquillity. Mother 
occupies her little sitting-room adjoining, for father likes the light of 
an open fire, and the children a place where they can make a noise. 
You must not paint me in the picture ' reading aloud,' for I fancy my 
Latin declensions and conjugations would have little interest for my 
companions ; but you may paint me knitting my brow over the difficult 
text, or puzzling my brain to spin out something upon paper. Before 
dinner, I read history ; after dinner, Latin ; and the evening I devote 
to writing. This arrangement I have followed for several weeks, 
and find it very convenient. If I gain any time by unusual industry, 
or facility of thought, I improve it in any miscellaneous reading that 
I like. All this looks very systematic, but I assure you the rules are 
not very rigidly enforced, my mistress being one of the most indulgent 
creatures you ever met. You know Fowler marked my chart, self- 
esteem 5 — 6 ? The fact will account for this long string of egotism ; 
but I have not written it so much in self-praise, as to convince you 
that my life, though secluded and quiet, is not idle. You, who are 
always reading, and thinking, and writing good and beautiful things, 
are so silent about them in your letters, that I feel quite ashamed of 
the display I make to you, as though I were really one of the won- 
ders of the age. This living so much by one's self does, I verily 
believe, induce selfishness, if not self-conceit ; and I know not to what 
extent it might increase, did not occasional contact with superior 
minds distinctly remind me of my insignificance." 

January 8, 1842, she thus writes : — 

" Do you hear ever from our friend 1 I fear she thinks I 

have grown indiflferent to her, and I hardly blame her if she does, for, 

shall I confess it, I have not sent her a single line since I left , 

last July. It is too bad, but I have neglected nearly all my friends 
in the same manner. I have no excuse for it, except engrossing oc- 
cupations and a growing disinclination to my pen. To tell the truth, 
it has become a great task for me to write at all, and nothing that I 



WEMOIK. 73 

attempt succeeds to my satisfaction. I quite dread to think of the 
' Rose,' and my contributions to the Repository are almost a subject 
of terror to me. I wonder if this be indolence, or whether it may arise 
from some other cause not quite so derogatory to my character for 
industry ? I love study as well as ever ; but I dread the eye of the 
world upon my soul, and it seems to me that my thoughts have lost 
their freshness, and that, instead of giving pleasure to my friends, L 
shall only weary them with hackneyed thoughts and feeble expres- 
sions. Is this all fancy 1 Your generous partiality will doubtless tell 
me so, but perhaps others, who love me less, will be more inclined to 
agree with me, in thinking that my productions are, really, very 
unprofitable. * * # # You say I write much of disappointed 

love. I do so, dear , not from any personal interest in the 

theme, but because, so far as my acquaintance with the human heart 
extends, there is much secret suffering from this cause ; and I trust 
I never speak in a manner to minister to morbid regret, but rather to 
point out its uses, its sanctifying influence upon the heart, and to 
recommend, as far as may be, its best and most successful remedies. 
Perhaps I make it too fi-equent a theme ; but you know it is my nature 
to be interested in love, and out of the abundance of the heart the pen 
writeth. * * * * I am very glad that your little book has been 
so successful. I know it must be a gratification to yourself, and cer- 
tainly it is to all of us who love you. Yet I can fully believe what 
you say, that your happiness depends more on being a faithful wife 
and mother than a writer of books. J knoiv that for myself I should 
greatly prefer to excel in those relations, had Heaven so disposed my 
fate, than to be the author of the most admired book ever written ; 
still, my dear friend, I and many with me would exceedingly regret 
that you should entirely relinquish your pen — for it is the chronicler 
of sweet tales, and a gentle minister of purity and love." 

Of har winter employments she writes : — 

" Now that I have told you what I have not done, I will show the 
brighter side of the picture. I have written poetry for the ' Rose,' 
and have prepared articles for the Repository, to last till May. Some 
twenty or thirty letters, also, I have written, and one or two little 
pieces thai I intend sending to the 'Star.' And this is all. But 
I have done better with reading. The girls made me translate 
' Corinne' to them aloud, which occupied the better part of two or 
three weeks, in my blundering manner. But it is a fascinating book 
— a story of passionate, suffering, wronged affection, with a tragical 
denouement. I have despatched something like twenty volumes of 
history and biography — and am now reading Gibbon's Rome aloud 
■7 



74 MEMOIR. 

as often as I find opportunity. In poetry I have run from Scott to 
Byron, from Shakspeare to Mrs. Hemans, and, indeed, enjoyed the 
society of almost all the good masters of the English lyre, as often as 
leisure has allowed. As to novels, I have not looked in one except 
' Corinne,' and thought, when I finished that, it should be a long while 
ere I opened another." 

In the same letter, in excusing the melancholy tone of a 
portion of it, she says : — 

" It was a cold and gloomy day yesterday ; the weather had its 
influence upon my feelings, and I find, upon looking over my letter, 
that I have allowed some foolish things to find admittance. Every- 
thing depends upon the weather. This morning I am as bright as a 
lark, and as happy as a kitten, and can hardly realize how it is pos- 
sible I ever should be sad. So you must never be disturbed by any 
little shadows of melancholy that steal over my feelings when writ- 
ing to you — for it takes but one hour of cheerful sunshine to chase 
them all away. So variable is my temperament and mental constitu- 
tion, I could not be placed in circumstances so wretched that I should 
not have many bright and joyous thoughts ; neither could I be in any- 
thing so blessed that I should not have occasional days of gloom. 
Perhaps you, yourself, have some knowledge of these 'caprices' of 
feeling; if so, you will be able to understand me." 

In April she writes : — 

" I have little to write that will interest you ; I go out occasionally 
to see and hear the dear brook, which is more musical and foamy 
than ever at this season. I find a few flowers, also, almost every walk 
I take ; but it is yet too early to meet them in great abundance. I 
write a little occasionally — scrub house also, and make over old 
dresses to look as well as new. Thus passes away my life, perhaps 
as usefully as if it were more bustling and showy." 

In one of her earliest letters to her new friend, " Charlotte," 
of whom I shall say more hereafter, she thus writes : — 

" Your second letter was received most welcoraely, and before I had 
broken the seal, I said to myself, ' Well, Lottie is a good girl, to answer 
my letter so promptly ;' but after I had opened and perused it, and 
found that it was written before the receipt of mine, I thanked you 
still more ; for it proved to me, what I fully believed before, that my 
dear friend was not one of those calculating compensation bodies, who 
must always have a ' quid pro quo' — and ' a tooth for a tooth, and 
an eye for an eye.' It was a proof, too, that you loved me, and 



MEMOIR. 75 

thought of me ; and that was very much to one who craves afiec- 
tion so exorbitantly as does your simple friend, Sarah. Yes, 
dear Lottie, I do believe in ' spiritual magnetism.' Firmly as I 
believe the mysteries of the mesmeric science, I do not yield it half 
the faith, nor esteem it half so wonderful, indeed, as that power with- 
in us which can work such mighty spells on the spirits and hearts of 
those that love us. And why should not a ' pair of black eyes' be 
haunting you, when those very eyes, some forty miles distant, were 
gazing in fancy upon your dear form, and calling up in various pic- 
tures, the varied expressions they had in former hours seen flitting 
across your face? Had it been otherwise, Lottie, I would have 
abjured my faith. Your story was, indeed, ghostly enough. I do 
not ' commit myself,' however, upon a subject in which I have had no 
personal ex])erience. Have you ever read Scott's ' Demonology,' or 
that other book in the Family Library, which treats of all kinds of magic 
and spectral apparitions ? There are many very marvellous stories 
recorded in them, and the attempt made to explain them upon philo- 
sophical principles — such as optic derangement, &c. ; but these expla- 
nations never fully satisfied me, and I am still as much as ever in 
the dark. I have tried a great many times to ' see a ghost' — to 
invoke spirits to appear ; — but for some inexplicable reason they 
refuse to do my bidding, till I am at last in such a ' miff' with all the 
host of goblins, that if they had a wish to show themselves they 
would be withheld by a dread of my anger. Spirits are really very 
mysterious things ; and I have learned to look upon them as much 
greater mysteries since I became a believer in Animal Magnetism. 
That one person's mind should gain such a spell over another's, as to 
draw it away from its body, and lead it to remote places which it had 
never visited, and bid it discourse of things and persons there located, 
of which neither mind had any previous knowledge, if it be true, is 
surely the most wonderful fact ever brought into the sphere of human 
comprehension. I leave others to explain its philosophy, while I sit 
still and marvel. ♦ * * 

" There is one thing I envy you, — and that is, your privilege of 
attending lectures. I think I vi'ould even consent to give up the beau- 
ties and quietude of the country, for the literary advantages of Boston. 
The lectures of Mr. Dana must have been exceedingly interesting. 
There are a thousand beauties in Shakspeare, and every other great 
poet, which one would never discover without the aid of some finely 
cultivated poetic mind — of some miner who is skilled in digging up 
intellectual gems, and giving them the polish of an artist. 

" I wish we could be together to read Spenser and Shakspeare and 



76 MEMOIR. 

Milton. It would add much to the interest which they inspire, and 
I fancy we could mutually aid each other in eliciting their numerous 
beauties. I have read ' Comus' since I returned from Lowell — the 
second time within a year — and may I say that of all Milton's poems 
this is my favorite? ' Paradise Lost' is a very great and marvellous 
achievement of genius — but it never wins my love, though it com- 
mands my admiration. So the ' Midsummer Night Dream' in Shak- 
speare, possesses for me a peculiar charm. 

" I have been reading Dickens' Notes of Travel in America. It 
has his usual wealth of huraor, and is, I believe, in almost every 
respect, just, if not generous. lie shows in it his warm, kind, benev- 
olent nature. I love him for the severity, or justice, I might say, 
with which he has written of slavery ; of the Philadelphia Solitary 
Confinement System ; of Prison Discipline ; of American ' fepitting ;' 
of Shakerism, (we have Shakers in our town, so I can vouch for 
the truth of his representations,) and last, but not least, of the vile 
newspaper depravity which now prevails throughout our political 
world. May his strictures be duly felt and regarded. Coming from 
an Englishman, and an author so extremely popular as Dickens, they 
will, I think, effect greater good than anything that could be written 
by an American." 

To the same person she gives a picture of her home : — 

" What a long time of beautiful weather we have had, pleasanter 
even than summer I think. I have taken one very pleasant walk, 
and only one, since my return. You don't know how much I wished 
you with me to enjoy the splendid landscape. From the top of a high 
hill directly back of our dwelling is seen one of the prettiest and most 
extensive scenes of woodland and water, and intermingling hills, that 
was ever my lot to gaze upon ; and when colored with the splendid 
dyes of autumn, nothing can exceed its gorgeous beauty. Next sum- 
mer, when you pay me that visit, we will have some delightful ram- 
bles ' through bush, through briar' — will we not ?" 

And she thus expresses her pleasxire at the acquisition of 
such a friend : — 

" Your very kind letters have both been received, and read with 
more than usual interest. I do love your warm, free heart, that dis- 
penses so liberally of its sweet treasures to one who prizes affection 
above all other earthly gifts. I have not been unmindful of you, 
although time has been hitherto so fully occupied as to leave me no 
opportunity to answer your first good letter. Your pleasant face is 



MEMOIR^ 77 

before me often ih my busiest moments ; it mingles with my sweetest 
visions ; it is a new and welcome star in the sky of my heart, whence 
some have already gone down, and others glimmer and grow pale. 
Long beam it brightly there, to cheer my hours of sadness, and guide 
me on to fountains of happiness and strength." 

To the same : — 

" Do you have any good laughs now-a-days ? I am afraid my face 
will grow sharp and elongated if you do not come soon to throw into 
it the reflection of your own merry humor. Somehow or other, there 
does not seem to be anything to make fun of here ; and unless I have 
some one to help me, I seldom get into much of a frolic. Here I sit from 
morning till night — no, I don't s/< all the while, but stay — doing 
nothing in the world more comical than washing dishes, sweeping 
floors, eating, drinking, and scribbling. Once in a while, sisters and 
I have a funny time — but we have to use the same thing over so 
many times we wear it all out before anything new suggests itself. 
I think, if you were here, you might keep us in new ideas." 

In March, 1843, she writes : — 

" To-morrow is the anniversary of Mrs. Scott's death. A year 
since she was taking her farewell of all she loved on earth ; where is 
she now ? Whenever I think of her, it seems to me that she is pres- 
ent — that she knows my thoughts ; and I have a feeling of reverence 
and awe, very like that I used to experience in her personal society. 
The spiritual state is to me a most solemn mystery. I have no defi- 
nite ideas respecting it, but yet no distrust of its entire peacefulness, 
and superiority to what'we now experience. I have a strong longing 
to knoiv something — but such knowledge is, I suppose, very wisely 
forbidden." 

At the close of a descriptive letter to Charlotte, she says : — 

" So one picture follows another in my soul, like a moving diora- 
ma — now it is a laughing eye, and now a pale and thoughtful brow. 
Everything that is beautiful in expression, no matter in what human 
face divine I meet it, is daguerreotyped into rny heart, and becomes a 
material for thought, fancy and affection." 

April 24th, 1843, to a dear friend : — 

"Dear , you don't know a beautiful rainbow is this mo- 
ment dazzUng my eyes, as I lift them in the direction of Providence — 
for even from here 1 can look towards your dear city — and when I 

7* 



78 SIEMOIE. 

turn to my paper, my eyes carry there the bright and beautiful reflec- 
tion, so that my letter seems covered with rainbows. Is there mean- 
ing in this ? Oh, let there always be rainbows between you and me, 
dear friend ! ' ' 

In June she Avrites : — 

" I am busy — busy — busy — with the uncompleted ' Rose.' When I 
look into the garden, I envy the roses there for the ease with which 
they grow. But I love the work. If I could dismiss a few of the 
perplexities, I know nothing more gratifying than the preparation of 
my little annual pic-nic. But when copy fails, and I have nowhere 
to turn for a supply but to ray own brain, I confess my hand and 
heart both falter. But it is so much pleasanter and easier to think 
and write in the cool, quiet country, than in your good, generous, but 
noisy, dirty city, that I have no words to express the pleasure I feel 
in being able to remain at home during this delightful season." 

Also, the same year, the following : — 

" I wonder why it is that I do not write letters with the ease that 
I once did. Is my mind less fertile, or my heart? I have not out- 
lived all sentiment, I trust, but I am in a transition-state, that most 
uninteresting period of human life, when my mind seems striving to 
settle itself into some regular habits of thought, and my heart is, I 
know not where, — afloat on the tide of life, knowing not where to 
make its haven , — not yet satisfied with its search among things of 
earth, yet feeling more and more convinced that the sole heaven is 
above, and that thither its course should tend» I do not grow better 
as I increase in years. I rather feel that I am worse ; that I am 
more giddy and thoughtless ; thai I am constantly sliding back from 
the goal of moral excellence whither my better judgment would lead 
me. But into this strain I will not lead you ; for if I am not good 
and wise, it is my own fault, and I have no claims on the sympathy 
of those who are so. I am very happy, but there is a question in my 
mind whether I deserve to be so. I do little to merit so much sunshine 
from heaven. 

" I wish you were here to ramble with me to-night. We have 
had some fine showers, and the trees are so green and beautiful, I 
am longing to be out in the shadow of them. I never realized the 
charms of the country so fully as now, after my long visit to the hot 
and dusty city. I hope I may always have a home amid the beauti- 
ful things of nature. Art, literature, human society, — these all 
united, would not supply to me the absence of green fields and run- 



MEMOIR. 79 

ning brooks ; much less would they reconcile me to the loss of country 
quiet, which is, I believe, a part of my very soul. I trust heaven is 
not the eternal city, but the eternal country ; that would convey to my 
mind far sweeter images of beauty and peace, than any description I 
have ever read. 

" After all, to how little of the really beautiful within us can we 
give clear utterance ! How much there is in our souls, of God and 
heaven — how much of love and grief, for which we can find no words ? 
And are not these thoughts and feelings worth more to us than all 
that we ever uttered ? These, at least, can never be poured out and 
wasted — never can be wounded by rudeness, nor crushed by scorn. 
They are like beautiful night-dreams that fill us with joy and delight, 
but which can never be shared with or imparted to another. You 
ask me what I am doing, and thinking. Really, it would be a 
strange catalogue if I were to tell you all. I have as much washing 
and churning as Debby* had to do, and, what is provoking, I can 
never manage to look beautiful or graceful about it. Then I read 
some novels too, Miss Bremer's in particular, and take some solitary 
strolls, but none by moonlight. As for thinking, why, sometimes I 
think of you, but I would not have you imagine I do such a foolish 
thing very often. Sometimes I think sad things that make me cry, 
but much oftener glad and gay things that make me laugh. I do not 
indulge in excess of feeling on any subject when I can avoid it ; and, 
above all things, I struggle to keep down fallacious hopes, — to dream 
of no joy that cannot be mine, to foster no unquiet wish for blessings 
God withholds. And so the world goes on, and I strive to think it 
goes smoothly ; but I cannot but rejoice, all the while, that there is a 
happier one prepared for us in the end ; one where the soul sins not, 
and the heart is never lonely. My literary occupations are often a 
source of pure pleasure to me, though making them so public a thing 
is a trial to my feelings, that few can understand. I know that all 
sensitiveness of this kind should stand rebuked by the voice of duty ; 
but I sometimes suffer so much from a sense of my situation in 
this respect, that a refuge under some green sod of the church-yard, 
with no name to point out my hiding-place, seems of all things most 
desirable. But this is foolish ; and if my heart go not forth into the 
world to lose its delicacy, those who know me will not judge me 
harshly that my name is there, even though it be sometimes rudely 
spoken." 

During this period, she was once called to apply to herself 
that consoling faith which she could so eloquently recommend 

* A female character in one of her tales. 



80 MEMOIR. 

to Others. Her friend, Mrs. Scott, died March 5th, 1843. 
Many years of ill health had somewhat prepared her for the 
loss ; and in her correspondence she often speaks of the event 
as anticipated. And when it came, she was found cheerful, 
and full of trust, as becomes one who has learned in pros- 
perity to rely upon that power whose chastenings are bless- 
ings. Yet she deeply felt her present loss ; for in the so- 
ciety of this friend she had found her earliest and highest 
sympathy. In tastes and opinions they greatly resembled each 
other, though very different in temperament. 

It was the dying wish of her friend that she should edit her 
writings for publication, and this was accordingly done. The 
volume appeared in the autumn of 1843, and consisted of se- 
lections from the poems of Mrs. Scott, to which was prefixed a 
brief but affectionate notice of her life. 

After such a tribute it would be impossible for me to add 
anything to the adequate representation of the character of 
this lamented woman. I have known her only through her 
friends, her poems, and correspondence. And there are few 
whose spirit has so impressed itself upon everything with 
which it came in contact, as hers. Possessing a temperament 
constitutionally ardent, and sensitive to the slightest impres- 
sions, dependent to the last degree for happiness upon the 
love of friends, yet upborne by an enthusiastic love of truth, 
and a noble heroism in the endurance of suffering encountered 
in the way of duty; with a ceaseless longing for an ideal 
excellence, which, in the feeble state of her health, doubtless, 
liastened the termination of her earthly existence, she 
could not fail to win the interest and love of all who knew 
her. I should say, that enthusiasm, in the best sense of the 
term, was her prominent characteristic. She lived with that 
intensity of being which, although we are unable to resist its 
charms, makes us tremble for the mortal part which feebly 
holds so much power and aspiration. The acquaintance was 
peculiarly valuable from this difference in the temperament of 
the two friends ; for never was one more happily constituted 
to soothe and allay the fever of soul than Sarah. The atmos- 
phere in which she moved was full of peace ; and Julia was 



MEMOIR. 81 

not the only one among her friends who has blessed her for 
the calm influences which have enveloped him in hours of 
great mental and moral unrest. Mrs. Scott was, also, admir- 
ably qualified to cheer her companion, and supply that motive 
power in which natures so quiet are usually deficient. This 
contrast only cemented their love more firmly ; a love which, 
interrupted upon earth, is now, we trust, consummated in a 
higher state. Sarah never could forget a friend, and, through 
her subsequent life, her aflfection for her earliest literary asso- 
ciate constantly increased. 

In the death of Mrs. Scott, the religious order of which she 
was a member sustained a loss that has never been repaid. 
Her poems are peculiar and excellent of their kind. In the 
sphere of domestic and religious sentiment, she must be ac- 
knowledged to stand at the head of the female denominational 
writers. Most of her productions were written under the 
pressure of affliction or illness ; and if, at times, the sufferer 
or the invalid appears too prominently, the compensation is 
more than given in the cheering faith which brightens her sad- 
dest meditations. The published volume of her poems is one 
of the books to which we often go for that refreshment af- 
forded by the union of elevating sentiments and a poetic 
imagination ; and to her may unhesitatingly be given the 
name so rarely deserved — a Christian poet. 

Compensation is the law of our earthly existence, and it did 
not fail in this instance ; for the year succeeding that which 
deprived Sarah of one friend, gave her another in the person 
of " Charlotte." I think her acquaintance with Miss C. A. 
Fillibrowne, began in the summer of 1842, and it was not 
long in ripening to a devoted attachment. There is a record 
of a week spent by them in Lowell together, at this time, in 
the society of friends, which in their correspondence forms 
a constant topic of pleasant reminiscence. The freshness 
and sincerity of Charlotte's nature at once gained the heart of 
her friend. Her sparkling humor and quick perception of the 
ludicrous were an additional attraction to one who was all 
her life a most devoted disciple to the religion of wit and 
mirth ; while a congeniality of literary pursuits added the last 



82 MEMOIR. 

bond, necessary to cement this happy union of hearts. Sarah 
also was the elder, and, in many things, the instructor and 
advisor of Charlotte. Their correspondence is beautifully 
characteristic, and a model of a high sincere intercourse be- 
tween friends, possessing the rare charm of discussing the 
most common details of news and domestic life, in a spirit and 
tact as far removed from the sentimental as the prosaic. In 
the summer of 1843, Charlotte spent several weeks at Shirley 
village. The friends, with Sarah's brother, led, for a few 
weeks, a life of perfect gypsy freedom. Every pond, and 
stream, every hill-top, or path running away into the woods, 
was explored ; whole days spent out of doors ; or, if anything 
detained them within, employed in a manner that would have 
upset the gmvity of the most severe advocate of household 
discipline. At the close of this time, they went together to 
the city and employed their leisure in reading or visiting the 
rooms of artists, to which they were generously admitted 
by some friends who are now among names the best known 
in American art. I regret that the strictly confidential nature 
of this correspondence prevents me from extracting largely for 
the present memoir. Of this friendship, increasing in strength 
and beauty, till it was also interrupted by the death of Char- 
lotte, I shall say more in the progress of my narrative. 

In the spring of 1842, I saw her for the first time, at Shir- 
ley village. Coming from a distant part of the country, and 
not being in the way of the periodical publications for which 
she wrote, I had never before heard her name. My acquaint- 
ance, therefore, began with the woman. I met her but twice, 
once at the house of a friend, and a second evening at a small 
family party in her own home. I was attracted by the quiet, 
womanly grace of her manners. She did not converse very 
freely, though her remarks were characterized by beauty of 
expression, and especially by a vivid power in description. 
But the great charm about her was, the unconscious expres- 
sion of a beautiful soul, which no diffidence of manner, or 
hesitancy of speech could repress. She impressed every one 
who came near her with a perfect confidence in the quiet 
affectionateness of her nature. Her deep tender eyes, and 



MEMOIR. , 83 

her face, from which a cheerful and sympathetic expression 
was never absent, could not fail to win the heart of the most 
indifferent. And I was also impressed by the perfect unity of 
spirit which seemed to pervade the family circle ; a unity so 
complete that the thoughts and feelings of each seemed to be 
anticipated by the rest, almost before they could be uttered. 
Soon after these pleasant evenings I returned home, and neither 
saw or heard of her until the winter of 1843-4. 

During this period, up to the commencement of the year 
1844, her mental and religious culture had steadily advanced. 
Her acquaintance with English literature was greatly ex- 
tended ; and she had made considerable progress in the study 
of the Latin and French languages. She also acquired a very 
correct knowledge of botany, and read many popular works 
upon the other natural sciences. History was not neglected, 
and biography, and fictitious reading were frequent subjects 
of attention. Her library had increased, and when I saw her 
first, consisted of four or five hundred well selected volumes. 

Among the modern English poets, her favorite author at 
this time was Wordsworth. His quiet flow of thought, and 
his hopeful spirit, accorded well with her own temperament. 
The beautiful simplicity of his diction, also, was an object of 
her admiration, and the influence of it can be traced in the 
formation of her later style, which in prose and verse is char- 
acterized by ease and purity. She retained her love for 
Wordsworth till the close of her life, although afterwards more 
attracted by other poets. Shakspeare was also her constant 
study. She had already outgrown an early fondness for the 
poetry of Byron and Mrs. Hemans ; repelled from the former 
by that diseased selfishness which must at last destroy the 
interest of every genuine mind in his writings ; and from the 
latter by the false view of life and the religious sentimentalism 
which, like a jingle of harsh bells, so often break the harmony 
of her thought and versification. For the poets of the school 
of Pope she had no respect, and Moore and the tribe of senti- 
mentalists were equally oflTensive to her. I think she then 
read Shakspeare, Wordsworth, and Bums, almost to the ex- 
clusion of others. In prose, she was principally attracted to 



84 MEMOIR. 

Carlyle, Lamb, Scott, and Channing. She had also frequent 
opportunities, during her visits to the city, to cultivate a taste 
for art, by examining the best works, in the company of com- 
petent critics. 

Of her progress in spiritual things, w^e can judge by the 
highest of proofs, the increasing beauty of her character. Her 
religious sympathies were becoming broader, and.though her 
attachment to the faith of her childhood deepened yearly, it 
was displayed by a growing aversion to sectarianism. She 
had little syinpathy with those who would make the doctrine 
of God's Universal Love a foundation for narrow religious 
clanship, and though never exerting herself in a public man- 
ner to intrude her own opinions upon others, she cherished in 
her heart the longing of the highest spirits of our time for a 
more complete unity of Christendom. The Christian trust 
with which she met the loss of her friend Mrs. Scott, is a 
proof that she had overcome the fear of death, and attained 
that faith which prepares one equally for the discipline of 
earth or the employments of the future. 

Early in the year 1844, I went to Shirley village to spend 
a college vacation in teaching. Our acquaintance was renewed, 
and very soon ripened into love, which resulted in an engage- 
ment of marriage. From this time I shall fortunately be able 
to speak of her from recollection, as her correspondence becomes 
less available every succeeding year ; and I trust, the frequent 
appearance of my own person in the narrative will be excused, 
when it is remembered that henceforth the history of our lives 
was too closely interwoven, to be separated. Our literary 
pursuits were upon common ground ; — we studied and read 
and Avrote together, and in all spiritual things were of one 
mind. 

Love with her was a passion that carried with it her whole 
nature. It did not begin and end in dreams of unattainable 
earthly felicity, or unfit her for the realities of life ; but was 
manifested to others chiefly by increased desire for mental and 
moral culture. Thus we may truly date from this winter a 
new epoch in her life ; for afterwards she studied with more 
regularity and care, and read with greater discrimination, and 



MEMOIR. 85 

her exertions for excellence in literary composition were more 
intense and sustained. In this she was aided by the sympa- 
thy and advice of her brother, then in college, and of another 
friend, to whom we all owe more than I can ever express, and 
whose public labors in the vineyard of the Lord, faithful as 
they may be, can never bring to him a more sincere tribute 
of affection, than our united love, now hallowed by the depart- 
ure of two of our little company. Neither can Ave forget in 
this connection others, who are bound by the same ties ; — 
friends gained at this time, or henceforth more dearly loved 
because better known. 

This winter was not so much devoted to literary pursuits as 
usual. The marriage of her elder sister called for more than 
ordinary exertion in domestic duties. Yet was a foundation 
laid for much future improvement. She passed many even- 
ings in reading, in company with her brother and myself. 
Her range of authors was much enlarged by the opportunity 
of obtaining books from the libraries of Cambridge and Am- 
herst. Among those read this winter I remember the works 
of Joanna Bailie, Macaulay's Essays, and Percy's English 
Ballads. Beside these, we read much of Wordsworth. Those 
golden evenings are woven up into a picture which will never 
lose its bright colors — evenings more welcomed after days of 
toil in the village school-room, Avhen we read and talked 
together, and after our humble manner contemplated the em- 
ployments of future years, and imparted and received aid in 
the Christian life. Well may I remember them, for then first 
was I awakened to the reality of spiritual things, and the 
floating aspirations of my youth concentrated into determined 
purpose. Through my love for her I was unconsciously led to 
the love of God, and the longing for a high and Christian life. 

At the close of my school term, we separated. Her brother 
John went to Cambridge, and I to Amherst, and she returned 
to her usual employments. Preparations for the " Rose" occu- 
pied her during the spring, interrupted only by a short visit to 
Lowell, and by an increase of domestic employments. The 
family circle was now broken by a new household arrangement. 
Two of her brothers yet lived in the old mansion, which was 
S 



86 MEMOIR. 

converted into a hotel to meet the increasing wants of the 
village, through which a railroad was now building ; and the 
remainder of the family, father, mother, one sister, and 
three younger brothers, removed to a pleasant cottage, separ- 
ated from it only by a garden. This removal was commem- 
orated bjr a little poem, written in her happiest manner, which 
will be found in the selections of this volume. 

Early in the summer I was obliged, by complete prostration 
of health, to leave college and suspend my studies. My 
debility was so great that I did little, through the summer and 
autumn, but travel and use various other methods for recovery. 
Sarah went to Boston to superintend the printing of the " Rose." 
During this absence from home, most of her time was spent 
with her sister at Waltham and with her friend Charlotte, 
then married to Mr. J. W. Jarauld. A few days were also 
passed at Medford with Mr. and Mrs. Bacon, then in deep 
affliction for the loss of a beautiful child. New ties had only 
deepened her attachment for old friends, and the days passed 
with those beloved ones, are described, in her letters to me, as 
among the happiest of her life. 

She returned home in August, and I saw her a few weeks 
in autumn, in company with one of her female friends. My 
own. health not being reestablished, I returned to spend the 
winter at home. She was employed during the remainder of 
the autumn and winter in the preparation of a little volume of 
poems, in study and domestic employments. 

During this year she wrote little for the Repository. The 
" Rose" contained the usual number of articles from her pen, 
most of which are superior to the average of her former pro- 
ductions. The most obvious improvement is. in her style, 
which is more chaste and expressive than in any former year. 
" The Fables of Flora," is a little book, edited at this time, 
containing the fables of Dr. Langhorn, interspersed with sev- 
eral of her own. Many of those are among the most graceful 
poems she ever wrote. 

The study of French was resumed this year, and never 
afterwards suspended. Her reading in the language was con- 
fined principally to the plays of Moliere. Botany and History 



MEMOIR. 87 

were also continued, and Moral Philosophy begun. To the 
authors read in the winter of which I have before spoken, I 
may add Wilson and Channing. She also began to read the 
poetry of Coletidge and Tenneyson. These \vriters, especially 
the latter, were closely studied from this time. Among 
American writers, Dana most interested her. I have never 
witnessed more unceasing endeavors for improvement than in 
her during this year. 

This period was not wanting in circumstances to develop 
her religious character. The accession of every new friend, 
was a new call to duty, and human ties only bound her more 
firmly to heaven. My own illness, and absence from study, 
were a source of equal anxiety to us, and in addition to her 
own sorrow she was obliged to exert all her energies to cheer 
me, and avert the unfavorable consequences of the extreme 
dejection attendant upon nervous derangement and bodily 
weakness. Her domestic duties increased, and often inter- 
rupted her literary pursuits and correspondence. Sickness in 
her own house was also added to her trials. But these only 
aroused the hidden strength of her nature. Always cheerful 
and hopeful, she labored without intermission, and often 
beyond her strength. We heard no word of impatience or 
complaint, and the times when care was pressing most heavily 
upon her were those when the sunlight of her presence was 
beaming most cheerfully upon all around. 

From the few letters she wrote to friends this year I select 
the following passages. Most of her correspondence was with 
myself, but few extracts of which can appear in this memoir. 

An illustration of her spirit of Christian liberality we find 
in a note to Rev. H. Bacon, now editor of the Reposi- 
tory : — 

" Respecting an aheration in the name of the ' Repository,' what I 
shall say will not be worth much in your decision. I do not think, 
however, that I should advise the addition of the word ' Universalist.' 
Let tlie principles of pure Christianity be freely set forth in the work, 
and none but a bigot, or persons of narrow views respecting the true 
motives of Christian labor, would complain because the sign was not 
held out to tell them that we belonged to a sect. I am as much — 



88 MEMOIR. 

yes, more a Universalist than ever — but I will have the whole world 
to range through if I wish, and be limited by no walls of party." 

And in a letter to myself she says : — 

" I sometimes almost wish I were a man and a minister. The first 
step I would take would be to the battle-field ; not to war against 
false theories, but to strike hard blows at the sectarian bigotry that 
builds up such high walls of partition between those who should be 
of one household. It is not altogether bigotry, either, that does the 
mischief, though it had its birth in bigotry ; it is a sort of distrust 
which those of one party feel towards those of the same sentiments 
called by a dilferent name. I have been secretly indignant upon this 
subject for a number of years, and I think it possible the fire will 
blaze out one of these days — not very fiercely, I daresay — but suffi- 
ciently perhaps to throw light into a few minds that are waiting for 
such light. I know, from what you have said in your letter, and else- 
where, that we sympathize upon this subject, as we do upon every 
other." 

In April, she writes : — 

" I think you cannot in the city feel the luxury of a day like this, 
so much as we do in the country. The air all soft and balmy, the 
sun faintly beaming through the thin clouds — the birds singing so 
gayly — the brook rushing joyfully through the alder-copse — the 
green grass visibly growing — everything, in short, so gladsome and 
so animate ! And then, in the midst of these, to have a healthy body 
and a happy heart ! ' ' 

To her friend, Mrs. Bacon, she writes, after returning home 
from Boston, where she had come to deposit the body of her 
child : — 

" I was not surprised at what you told me of the change in your 
feelings since your ret\irn home. It was unavoidable. The heroic 
calmness with which you met and struggled with your first days of 
trial, made demands upon your nervous energies which could not be 
always supplied. That moments of weakness and spiritual agony 
have followed, is no evidence that your faith is not still sufficient to 
console and support you. The body will in a measure control the 
spirit ; and when our nerves give way, we have no power to strug- 
gle with sorrow. Joy will return to you, my dear friend — I know 
it will. Time will accustom you to Mary's absence, and though you 
will never forget her, or wish to shut her from your thoughts, you 



MEMOIR. 89 

will find other duties supplying the place of those you once owed to 
her, and will not find it so difficult to live without her, as it is now, 
while the void is yet unfilled. It seems cold philosophy, I know, 
this idea of bringing other affections into the place of those that are 
bereft ; but our Father has placed us here to find our happiness in 
blessing those around us ; and when he takes any of these dear 
objects away, he signifies by the act that our duty to these is fin- 
ished — that we have done them all the good we can — that other 
objects of kindness and interest must come in to claim the cares that 
they no longer need. Oh, we have a priceless faith ! We lay our 
loved ones in the arms of God, and feel in our deepest souls that all 
is well with them. We have no fears for their future welfare. We 
know that they are, and will be eternally, happy. We know that we 
shall soon meet them again, never to part. When we commune with 
God, we feel that we are communing with one who has our treasures 
in his keeping. Were Mary absent from you upon earth, you would 
have constant fears that some ill might betide her. But now you 
know that evil can never touch your immortal one. For your earthly 
child you dread sickness and sin ; for your heavenly child you are 
confident of unbroken purity and bliss. For your mortal child you 
fear an early death — for your immortal child you are sure of eternal 
life. True you can never with your fleshly eyes behold the darling 
you have lost ; but in the spirit-land you shall behold her again, and 
clasp her in your arms with an ecstatic bliss you could never feel had 
you not been thus early separated. Is there not rich consolation in 
thoughts like these ! — Do not struggle strongly with your grief. 
Give way to your tears when you feel like weeping. Struggle with 
despondent thoughts as much as you are able ; but do not try to put 
on smiles when you do not feel them, nor, indeed, make any violent 
efforts to suppress nervous emotion. This feeling that one ought not 
to weep, is productive of evil. We ought to insist upon calm and 
trustful thoughts ; but if tender yearnings fill our souls, it is better 
for us to weep till we are relieved, than to irritate ourselves by efforts 
to restrain our tears." 

A few days after iny return from my autumn visit, she 
writes to me : — 

" This has been a glorious day — both in the inner and outer world. 

S and I walked up to the ' Old Dam,' where we came so near 

falling into the stream a week ago. It was very still and beautiful 
there, with the sunshine around us, the glory of the woods, and the 
soft ripple of the stream over the mossy stones. We sat down and 
8* 



90 MEMOIR. 

talked of you, and wished most intensely that you were with us. 
After dinner we took another long walk by Bow-Brook near its junc- 
ture with the Nashua. After our return I wrote another little fable, 
upon the subject you suggested. I will send you a copy of it. Will 
you not tell me its faults? — for I know it has many. I have spent 
several hours upon it, but am afraid it is good for nothing, after all- 
We have read more of Wilson to-day. He is full of poetry which 
might inspire me perhaps, if it would but stop in my head instead of 
running down into my heart so swiftly. To-night we have listened 
to Tennyson. Reading him is like entering a glade, half sunshine, 
half shadow, where many strange wild birds are singing that you 
never heard before." 

In a letter to a friend she gives a picture of herself : — 

" I have come once more to my ' pretty green-covered table,' which 
occupies the place that the plants did when you were here. We 
have removed all but a few of the most healthy to the cellar, and those 
that remain stand on the window-seat before me. A vase of green 
laurel, and a bottle of Cologne water, (your gifts,) occupy the centre 
of the table — and surrounding these, are scattered a large quantity 
of books, papers, an inkstand, pens, pencil, pen- wiper, and a port- 
folio, belonging to the ' gifted authoress.' The last mentioned ' sun- 
dry' sits in a flag-bottomed chair, dressed in a ninepenny calico and 
black silk apron, with some new bugle-tasselled hair-pins dangling 
on her neck, and a gold pencil stuck in behind the jet breast-pin at 
her throat. Her hands bear strong marks of apple-paring, having, 
with mother's and sister's aid, just accomplished the important busi- 
ness of making a large barrel of apple-sauce ; and one eye, I regret 
to say, looks quite unlovely from a painful inflammation in the under 
lid. Considering all things, liowever, your 'sis' looks rather gen- 
teel, and feels very comfortable and happy." 

She thus speaks of Channing : — 

" I account Dr. Channing the greatest man, the noblest philan- 
thropist our country has produced. To me all glory of statesmanship, 
all greatness of military skill, all pride of scholarship, seem mean and 
earthborn contrasted with a conscience so upright, and a spirit so liberal 
as his." 

The beginning of the year 1S45 found us quietly estab- 
lished in our respective homes, pursuing our favorite studies. 
Her brother was with her, having engaged in teaching during 



MEMOIR. 91 

the winter months, and she enjoyed his society, with that of 
a few others, who were interested in literary pursuits. Per- 
haps this was one of the calmest and happiest periods of her 
life ; for she could look back upon an active and useful past, 
and forward to a golden future. Her anxieties for my own 
health were relieved, and her hopes elated by the rapidly 
developing mind of her brother, for whom she had engaged in 
so many difficult labors. A letter to her friend Charlotte, 
contains a graphic picture of her at this time : — 

" I am now free from any pressing engagements, either literary 
or domestic ; but have laid out a course of study for the winter, 
which, if I faithfully follow, will keep me very busy. I am still 
pursuing French, which I shall not quit till I have mastered it ; and 
added to this, I have just commenced German under John's instruction. 
I get a lesson in each every alternate day. Evenings I give to writ- 
ing, and the study of the poets. I am now engaged on Wordsworth 
and Dana. ***** Do you think you can come and make me 
a visit, this winter, after the cars run to Shirley 1 Why not make 
your arrangements to return with me, when I am down 1 It will be 
but a two hours' ride, and we will have such a cosy, pleasant time, 
with John and Mayo to help us make fun. Think of it seriously, and 
resolve to come, will you not ? We have pleasant dances in our village 
occasionally, which you would like to attend. ***** You ought 
to peep into our pleasant little room, this evening. You would see 
mother sitting in one corner, knitting, John and Charles at one table, 
studying, Mary near me, sewing, and I seated with dignity at my 
own pretty round table, over which is spread a green-flowered cover, 
and on which lie numerous books ; a dish of green mosses and laurel, 
gathered and arranged by Mayo, occupies the centre of the table ; 
beside tliis stands a little blue Cologne-bottle ; next, my well-filled 
portfolio, a box of wafers, and an excellent steel pen. As for me, 
myself, I am attired in a new 'dark ninepenny calico, black silk apron, 
gold chain and pencil, breastpin, spectacles, hair combed over my 
ears, and two bugle-tasselled hair-pins, dangling down upon my neck. 
Is not the picture enticing? ***#*! have filled my sheet, 
and it is now time to go to bed. I am sorry that, after so long a 
silence, I have found nothing more interesting to write you, but I 
live so much in my own little world of thought, that I know nothing 
of what is going on about me." 



92 MEMOIR. 

In January I accompanied her to Waltham, the residence 
of her married sister, and Boston. A pleasant fortnight was 
passed in visits among her friends. I recall it with greater 
pleasure, as it was the only time I saw Charlotte. A week 
spent at her house is an event in my life not to be forgotten. 
It was beautiful to witness the affectionate intercourse of these . 
women, so unlike, yet so engrossed in each other's love. All 
the reserve and thoughtful repose of Sarah's manners were 
no proof against the irresistible merriment of her friend, — a 
gayety that never concealed her depth of feeling, but rather 
seemed its most appropriate manifestation. Other friends 
were also visited, and then first did I know him who has been 
to us ever since more than a brother, and whom we loved as 
much for his generous heart, as we admired for his gifted 
intellect. 

We returned together to her home, refreshed by our excur- 
sion, and desirous to carry out those plans of improvement 
that had been suggested by contact with other minds. At 
her solicitation I was persuaded to renounce my intention of 
returning to college, — a measure which, in my feeble state of 
health, would have been attended with great danger. I also 
♦now matured the plan which had long been floating in my 
mind, of devoting my life to the Gospel ministry. Her joy 
at this determination was a new incentive to efforts of self- 
culture. I returned home, full of hope, and with the means 
furnished by the kindness of friends for pursuing my studies 
alone until I should be able to avail myself of other advantages. 

The remainder of the winter and spring was passed by her 
in diligent study. One mournful event, however, interrupted 
the quiet of the household — the death of "Lizzy," a beautiful 
child of her brother's. A poem descriptive of this gifted little 
creature will be found in the present selection, written a year 
before. But she had now attained that perfect faith in God, 
which could sustain her under any affliction. Two of her 
dearest friends had already been taken away, and the death 
of this little one was but the beginning of a series of family 
bereavements, each of which found her calmer and nearer 
peaven. 



MEMOIR. 93 

The winter passed rapidly away. In March, she writes 
thus to Charlotte : — 

" It is really spring in the country. The snow is all gone, except 
a few small spots, and the birds are singing, you can't think how 
merrily. My heart is really quite thawed out, and begins to flow 
like Bow-Brook. Have you no yearning to visit this little stream 
once more 1 Why will you not, unless new and important ties for- 
bid, pay me and the stream a visit this summer? It will take you 
only two hours to come ; and you can run home any time when you 
are tired of us. Please give the subject a serious thought. * * * * 
I have nothing to write you, for I see nobody. From morning till 
night I may be found at my writing-table, at the south-east corner 
of the cottage sitting-room, sometimes reading German, sometimes 
French, sometimes English, and occasionally scribbling a piece of 
rhyme, or a letter to a friend. I enjoy myself as well as I ever did 
in my life, and perhaps as well as I ever expect to ; for I have few 
cares, except such as are pleasant to me, sufficient leisure to pursue 
my favorite occupations, and agreeable hopes to throw their sunshine 
over the future." 

We were together again in April, and made a short visit to 
the city, then returned to our homes ; she to begin the yearly 
labor upon the " Eose," and I to commence my theological stud- 
ies. During the summer she was employed at home upon the 
annual, it being the first season she could remain in the coun- 
try while it went to press. In August, she accompanied her 
brother and myself upon a tour through the northern portion 
of Massachusetts and the southern towns of New Hampshire. 
It was her first opportunity of witnessing the finest country 
scenery, and the days she spent among the mountains and in 
the fine woods of this beautiful region she never forgot. We 
journej'^ed upon the top of a stage-coach, and enjoyed fully the 
pleasure of this mode of travelling ; carried through long tracts 
of quiet woodland ; sweeping over a high hill, from which a 
wide region of variegated country was visible ; jiow whirling 
up to a village hotel, or riding for miles by the side of a brook, 
leaping over the rocks. We returned to Shirley village in 
the last days of August, and there the melancholy intelligence 
awaited us that Charlotte was dead ! So are joy and sadness 
mingled in our cup of existence. Yet we could thank God, 



94 MEMOIR, 

that we had been permitted to enjoy those weeks of com- 
munion with him through the loveliest sights and sounds of 
nature, before we heard that she had gone away ; and her 
memory was always associated with those scenes, to which it 
was not an inappropriate conclusion. We parted from each 
other, with more elevated purposes and chastened spirits, as 
men go out from hearing a concert of rich harmonies, closed 
by a plaintive melody ; looking their adieus, lest they should 
break the spell by spoken words. 

It was Sarah's intention to write an extended notice of the 
life of her friend for the " Rose of Sharon," and the materials 
were once collected for it. I know not why the work was 
never completed. I regret, with many others, that a volume 
of her best productions has not yet enriched our denomi- 
national literature, and hope we shall yet see it, accompanied 
with a tribute to her memory, from some one of those who 
can best do it. For she was a true woman, full of a woman's 
gentle and deep affection. The quality most apparent in 
her character was sincerity. There was no cant in her, 
and she possessed a happy humor, which was not seldom em- 
ployed in exposing it in others. Though unusually gay and 
social in her manners, she was yet subject to frequent periods 
of the deepest depression. Her life was not free from trials, 
but she knew how to endure them without complaint. She 
was in truth a woman whom to see once was to love and re- 
member. Her intellect was singularly fresh and productive. 
A brightness, like the sun shining through the young leaves 
of beech-trees in spring, was over everything that came 
from her pen. An unconscious grace in her poems, and a 
happy ease in her prose, declared the true artist. Had she 
lived, it is sure she would have become a distinguished or- 
nament in the company of our female writers. Her love 
for Sarah was the deepest feeling of her heart. She felt 
that to her she owed sympathy, encouragement, and strength. 
Neither was she destitute of other friends, but during the 
latter portions of her life was surrounded by those who under- 
stood her, and assisted her greatly in spiritual things. She 
died young, but few of us can lament that a soul so rare, con- 



MEMOIR. 96 

fined in a body so delicate and sensitive as hers, should be 
set at liberty, in the earliest period of its eternal develop- 
ment. A little poem in this collection expresses the feelings 
of her friend. 1 also copy the touching letter written to her 
husband : — 

" I thank you most sincerely for your kind and excellent letter. 
It was a great relief to me to hear from you, after the experience of 
so severe an affliction. I had for many days been intending to write 
to you, to express my sympathy for your loss, and should have done 
so soon, even had I not received your letter. 

" Our dear Charlotte is indeed gone, but gone, we sincerely trust, 
to a better and happier world than ours. Charlotte lies not in the 
dusty graveyard of the city, but lives in the sweet fields of that Canaan 
beyond death, which is the ' promised land' of us all. And though 
it is pleasant to give a beautiful shrine to her loved remains, and to 
.stand beside it with the tribute of regretful tears, yet it is well for us 
to think of the tomb as the depository of her body only, and to re- 
member that nothing of Charlotte, of her heart, her soul, her mind, 
ever descended there. She has no consciousness of the grave. 
When her eyes closed upon the faces of those she loved here, they 
opened upon the faces of God and his angels. 

" Your home must indeed he desolate, and it is for you and her 
mother, not for Charlotte, that I mourn. It will be a long while 
before you can cease to miss her sweet face, and her lively conversa- 
tion. Such vacancies in the heart can only be supplied by time, and 
perhaps never fully supplied in this life. But we have the precious 
privilege of looking forward to a life, not far distant, in which we shall 
clasp our beloved ones to our hearts again, with the full assurance 
that we shall never be separated more — that our union will hence- 
forth be eternal. What could we do in times of such sorrow, if it 
were not for this faith? Surely there is nothing in life we ought so 
much to cherish and cultivate as a deep, true, living and ever active 
faith in the glorious immortality to which we are all destined. We 
ought always to accustom ourselves to think of the dead as dead only 
in body, — or rather as spirits which have cast off a worn-out gar- 
ment, and ascended with purified affections to the home of Eternal 
Love. 

"I have lost a very dear friend in Charlotte. I shall miss her 
greatly, both as a correspondent and as one with whom I have been 
accustomed to pass many gay and pleasant hours. She will be a 
great loss to our denomination, too, for her talents were of a superior 
order, and were constantly developing themselves with time. My 



96 MEMOIR. 

' Rose ' will miss her sweet melodies sadly. I shall be very glad to 
examine her manuscripts, and hope I may find some relics there that 
will be new and acceptable to the public. I intend writing some little 
memorial of her for the next volume of the ' Rose,' something that 
will preserve her name beyond the transient notice of newspapers and 
magazines. 

" You did not speak of Charlotte's mother. I suppose she will 
continue to live with you for the present. Her loss is truly irrepara- 
ble. For an aged and widowed mother to lose an only and grown-up 
daughter, seems the greatest of earthly calamities. I do, from my 
deepest soul, pity the griefs of one so deeply bereaved. Do please 
tell her from me, how much I feel for her. I shall be in Boston at 
the time of the Convention, and shall certainly call at your house. I 
had anticipated great pleasure in sharing with dear ' Lottie ' the joy- 
ful greetings of that occasion. She will not be forgotten by her 
numerous friends who will meet together at that time. I shall be 
happy to hear from you at any time when you feel like writing, and 
you need not be at all timid about uttering all your feelings to me. 
I know how you loved Charlotte, and how painfully you must deplore 
her loss. And your little child, too, — it was indeed hard to lose 
both at once. May God bless and comfort you, and all others who 
share your grief. I am happy to hear you are to give her dust a 
resting-place at Mount Auburn. Two of my dearest friends will 
then lie side by side in one tomb. IIow similar their fate ! " 

We separated about the first of September ; she remaining 
at home, and I going to the city to continue my theological 
studies. A few weeks brought us together again in Boston, 
where she had come to attend the United States Convention 
of Universalists. There she met many of her old friends, and 
enjoyed much in their society, and the various religious ser- 
vices of the occasion. Nearly all her family also accompanied 
her. On the last day of the Convention her father was attacked 
with sudden illness, and with great difficulty removed to his 
home in Shirley village. Sarah immediately followed, and 
with unwearied devotion attended him during his sickness. 
His disease, a fever, rapidly increased in violence, and soon 
placed him beyond hope of recovery. On the Sabbath even- 
ing preceding his death, she wrote me a letter, from which I 
make the following extract. It will express, better than any 
words of mine, that beautiful repose of soul which nothing 
could now disturb : — 



MEMOIR. 97 

" My heart prays for you continually. I am happy in loving you, 
and happy in loving God. Life seems beautiful and peaceful to me. 
K there be any storm or tumult in the world, it is without, and not 
within. God's presence is too holy for any discord to intrude, and 
this day, at least, I feel that I am truly with him. Enfolded as we 
are in the love of God, and the love of each other, what cloud can 
ever darken our golden atmosphere, or throw a single abiding shadow 
into our hearts ? ***** I have been reading to-day Channing's 
divine sermon upon Christian worship. I was directed to this par- 
ticular discourse, by an index of your own, which I found so kindly 
left in the volume. I read it with the deepest delight, and I trust 
also with the greatest profit. It expresses fully and clearly that kind 
of devotion which I told you I wished so much to cultivate, and which 
I so feebly and vainly endeavored to describe to you ; that devotion 
wliich consists in an ever-constant, ever-conscious communion with 
the Father of spirits ; which studies his perfections in the design of 
transfusing them to the spirit wherein he dwells ; which sees God 
everywhere, and most of all in man, his sullied image. Pray for 
me, that I may cultivate this holy devotion, for in the exercise of it 
lies all the purity and felicity of heaven. My prayers go up for you 
to-night, that God will send you health, and strength, and heavenly 
peace ; that he will anoint you with power and grace to turn the 
hearts of men to love and practise goodness. Oh, may you be a 
faithful and useful minister of eternal truth ! — so shall my heart be 
satisfied in all its longings, and you be blessed with the richest and 
holiest blessings that lie in the gift of God." 

The sufferings of her beloved parent were at length termi- 
nated. He passed away, leaving a household whose Christian 
sadness was but a mellowed shade of Christian joy. For 
God's spirit came in there when the soul of the husband and 
father departed, and they felt that there was nothing but tem- 
porary absence to deplore. In reply to letters of sympathy 
from her friends, Sarah wrote the following, which truly re- 
flect the spirit of all the inmates of the bereaved home : — 

" Your kind letter was very welcomely received. Thank you for 
this attention in our season of bereavement. Our dear father is in- 
deed gone — we can never again look upon his earthly countenance. 
But we think of the immortality and the incorruption which are now 
his, and we are truly comforted. Poor mother is, of course, deeply 
afflicted. A happy union of thirty-five years has been suddenly inter- 
9 



98 MEMOIR. 

rupted. How vacant must the world seem to her, — no, not vacant, 
for she has many dear children and kind friends, but how sadly she 
must miss one voice, and the kindly beaming of one face that ever 
gazed into hers with the most devoted love ! I wept for father while 
he suffered, but I.weep only for mother now. But she is calm and 
cheerful. She is remarkable for the firmness and placidity of her 
mind, and for the strength of her faith, which never falters. She 
has the best of consolations in her religion, and in the love of her 
children. 

" Father's death seems sudden to us, though he was sick nearly 
three weeks. We did not give up hopes of his recovery until about 
three days before his death. After the fever got hold of his lungs, 
we saw but too plainly he could not endure. His mind was quite 
wandering and confused during the whole of his illness. He knew 
every one, but could not hold a rational conversation. His mind was 
a good deal interested in some imaginary philanthropic scheme, of 
which he was the leader, and by which he sought to unite all men in 
harmony. ' As the world was now,' he said, ' some were too rich, 
and some were miserably poor ; but if men would only join his society, 
they would all be well enough off, — everybody would be free to 
cherish his own opinions, and there would be nothing but harmony.' 
A night or two before he died, while my sister was watching with 
him, as it was very dark without, a little bird came fluttering up to 
the window, and beat up against the glass, chirruping in a strange 
manner, unlike any bird she ever heard. One cannot help feeling, 
however free from superstition one may be, that such little messengers 
come from the spirit-land, to beckon the dying soul away to bliss. 
Father's corpse wore the most serene and benignant expression I ever 
saw. It made me happy to gaze on it, after watching his countenance 
through so many days and nights of extreme suflering. Oh, thei'e is 
something touchingly beautiful in the death of the good ! There are 
times when father's death fills me with the most solemn and intense 
happiness, for I seem really to see him in that blissful world where, I 
doubt not, his ransomed spirit now abides. The time may come, — 
doubtless it will, — when death will touch me more sorely than it 
ever yet has done, but I do most earnestly believe there will ever be 
to me a sweet mingling of holy joy in the bitterest cup I may ever 
have to drink." 

" I did not give up the hope of visiting you, until withni an hour 
before leaving Boston. I received a letter from home at that time, 
from which I gathered but too true a presentiment of the trial that 
awaited me. The trial is past now, — I believe we are all sincerely 
reconciled to father's death ; and if you were to come among us, you 



MEMOIR. 99 

would find us all as cheerful and happy as ever. Mother, of course, 
feels his loss much more than his children can ; but I know she would 
not call him back, had she power. The infirmities of age were 
already coming upon him, and had he lived longer, he would have 
had many days of toil and pain. But he died in almost the first sick- 
ness of his life, at a ripe age, and when all our memories of him were 
full of pleasure. Probably no man in our village was so universally 
liked, or will be so much missed by his neighbors ; for his heart was 
as kind and artless as his face was cheerful ; and no one could ever 
say he had done him wrong." 

" I owe you many thanks for your very kind and sympathizing let- 
ter. We have, indeed, met with a great loss — such as can come to 
us but once in life — for we have but one father. But in view of the 
increasing infirmities of age, and of the laborious lot which he took 
upon himself in his later years, we cannot but feel that he was called 
away in a fitting time, and that it is not only far better for him, but 
even happier for us, than to have witnessed years of suifering, which 
we could not alleviate. Our dear father passed through a life of health 
and happiness. When these began to fail, why should we mourn 
that his Father called him homel We all, even mother, feel sin- 
cerely reconciled to his departure, though it was indeed a severe trial 
to watch him through the pains and difficult breathings of dissolution. 
His mind was not very regular during his sickness, but he did not 
apparently suffer much in his delirium. He never spoke of dying ; 
but that he felt that death was near, was apparent by the affectionate 
manner in which he pressed our hands and clung to our arms when- 
ever we stood bending over him. He was a good man, and in that 
there is something divinely consoling." 

All that she has here said of her father's character is true. 
He was a man of strong judgment, and great decision of pur- 
pose ; yet I think these became apparent only upon an intimate 
acquaintance with him ; for he had a heart as deep as the 
ocean, which overflowed in every act and word of his life. 
This, united with a great fund of humor, and an almost child- 
like simplicity of manner, made him the most engaging of 
companions, especially to the young. His face suggested 
everything amusing, social, and benevolent. His love for his 
children, and pride in their superiority, were beautiful to be- 
hold. He was a man so full of true vitality, that we could 
never associate death with him, but must believe that he was 



100 MEMOIR. 

only lifted to a higher sphere for the exercise of these qualities 
which so endeared him to us upon earth. 

The remainder of the autumn and winter was spent by 
Sarah quietly at home. I returned in November to Warwick, 
and remained several months, pursuing my usual course of 
study. This year had been to her rich in spiritual experiences. 
The constant inspiration of our love, daily growing deeper 
and more religious, from the circumstances of our lot; the 
departure of so many who were nearest her heart ; her exer- 
tions to administer consolation to others ; and her constant 
and disinterested labor for the happiness of all around her, 
were silently preparing her for higher duties on earth, and 
heavenly occupations not far in the distance. Yet, with the 
multitude of calls upon her time and sympathies, this was 
one of the most fruitful years in her intellectual history, not, 
perhaps, if measured by the quantity she wrote, but certainly 
so, if estimated by its results in the discipline of her mind, 
and the attainment of more correct views of literary composi- 
tion. The study of French was constantly pursued, and she 
had already become an accomplished scholar. The various 
works of Madam De Stael, and several of the modern French 
poets, were read. She was also strongly interested in Ger- 
man, which she read with the assistance of her brother. All 
the poems, and several of the plays of Goethe were thus gone 
over, also several of the charming aesthetic prose articles of 
Schiller. From both of these writers she made frequent 
translations. She also read philosophy in the works of Paley, 
Stewart, and Cousin, with the same enthusiasm which she 
brought to the reading of the poets. In English literature 
she read the poetical works of Southey, Tennyson, and Milton, 
and studied Shakspeare every day. These pursuits, with 
historical and fictitious reading, form no mean catalogue of 
labors for a retired, domestic woman to accomplish. She also 
wrote a series of tales for the Repository, and her usual num- 
ber of contributions to the Rose. In tales like the " Spring 
of the Valley," and " Marion," and poems like the " Retro- 
spect," " Memory's Picture-Gallery," and " The Beggar's 
Death-Scene," we trace the result of her studies, and the pro- 



MEMOIR. 101 

gress of that artistic power which appeared in ahnost every- 
thing she afterwards wrote. "The Ferry" is a poem sug- 
gested by her German studies, and the first of a series in 
which we can trace the influence of the works of the great 
poets of this language upon her susceptible mind. 

The months of January and February, 1846, she spent at 
home, principally engaged in domestic occupations. I had 
now returned to the city, and was looking forward to a situa- 
tion in the ministry. Her time was much engrossed by 
friends, several of whom were near or with her ; and some of 
them will long remember those winter evenings, when she 
gave them new views of life, and exerted upon them a gentle 
shaping influence, which the contact of the world can never 
overcome. Her brother was also at home, his health having 
suffered in consequence of too severe application to study. 
Of course little time was found for correspondence. I extract 
the following from one of the few letters she wrote : — 

"I should think you could have no more pleasant or profitable 
study, for the present, than English literature. Why not make this 
the principal object of attainment for a number of years? What I 
mean is, that yfu should read some one poet carefully, with regard 
to his style, his scope, and his ultimate success in what he proposes 
to himself. To do this, you might be obliged to peruse and reperuse 
a work ; but if it were a good work, the labor would not be in vain. 
What a study, for instance, is Shakspeare ! Now what I would pro- 
pose is, that you should read one of his plays at a time, with a careful 
study of all the criticism you can procure, and also wTite such criti- 
cisms of your own, as the varied characters and their actions and 
language would naturally suggest. In this manner you could make 
light literature as much of a mental discipline as anything more ab- 
struse or difficult ; and I believe you have a mind and taste admirably 
qualified for such a task. In my view, there is no accomplishment 
more enviable than a thorough acquaintance with elegant English 
literature; and, though all persons could not pursue such a plan suc- 
cessfully, I know of few so naturally qualified for it as yourself." 

But another trial was approaching the house, lately so pain- 
fully afflicted. Her sister Miranda, married two years before, 
died, after a short illness, on the sixteenth of February, leav- 
ing her child, a little boy a year old, to the care of the family. 
9* 



102 MEMOIR. 

She was the eldest of three daughters, and a woman greatly 
beloved by all who knew her; in character resembling the 
father more than any of his remaining children. It is un- 
necessary to repeat what we have before said, of the manner 
in which this new affliction was received. A short passage 
from a letter written a few days subsequent to the event, v/ill 
best describe the Christian resignation of the bereaved house- 
hold : — 

" A great change has entered our domestic circle within the last 
four months. A father gone, and into his place has come a mother- 
less infant, the child of my eldest sister, whose dust was only two 
days since deposited in our rapidly-filling tomb. You have seen her, 
I believe ; you can imagine how severe an affliction it is to us all, to 
feel that we shall see her no more on earth. But we are not un- 
reconciled. Few tears are shed at our fireside, we all feel that it 
would be selfish to weep, for blest as our dear Miranda was in her 
new relations, she is infinitely more blessed now." 

The addition of the care of a child to the other domestic 
duties, of course, interrupted her literary pursuits during the 
spring and summer. She was also engaged in efforts to assist 
in the building of a new church in the village, and greatly 
aided the project by her efficient labor. The preparation for 
the " Rose " was, however, not neglected. She determined 
that her annual should yearly increase in value, and this time 
her success was far beyond that of any former year. The 
volume for 1847 is, in all respects, the most valuable of the 
series, containing several articles of the highest literary merit. 
Several of her best poems, written amid the confusion of con- 
stant domestic employments, are here. " UdoUo " is one of 
her happiest inspirations, and shows how successfully she 
could adopt the mythical style, peculiar to some of the Ger- 
man poets. The stormy passage of a human soul through a 
course of sin, its fearful condition, when left at the end of life 
deserted even by the appetites for which it had surrendered 
its glory, its late return and repentance, and the calmness of 
its departure, worn and wearied, to a new sphere of activity, 
are here not so much allegorized as shadowed forth in a ballad 
glowing with true poetic fire. Perhaps her power in versifica- 



MEMOIR. 103 

tion, and the choice of appropriate imagery, are in no instance 
more happily displayed than in this. Among others, I would 
also refer to the poems, " The Lord de Beaumonaire," " Leila 
Gray," " The Old Mill," and " The Church-Bell," as among 
the hest she has written. She wrote but one tale for this 
number, the beautiful story of " Lydia Vernon." 

She was employed until the month of August, as we have 
described, and in editing the "Rose." She also compiled a 
little book, called the " Floral Fortune-Teller," consisting of 
a gracefully arranged game at telling fortunes in passages, 
selected principally from Shakspeare. The preparation for this 
led her again over the pages of the great English poets. We 
also read together the poetical works of Keats, of which she 
had the truest appreciation. This, with a few articles written 
for the Repository, includes the whole of her literary labor 
until the time of our marriage. Several short visits to the 
city, the home duties, and her constant interest in the comple- 
tion of the new church, occupied her attention almost to the 
exclusion of other objects. I find but one letter written during 
this period, from which I can make an extract : — 

" I wish very much to know KoW you enjoy life in Clinton, after 
so long an experience of the city. I imagine at first you must have 
felt very unhappy, that you must have yearned for the familiar faces 
and greetings of tried friends, and have missed the daily excitements 
of populous life. But I cannot but believe, when you have once more 
become accustomed to country quiet, and village society, when the 
voices of tlie streams and the songs of the birds have become dear to 
you, as the communings of friendship, tliat you will feel your spirit 
refreshed and invigorated by the peaceful calm, and that your health 
and spirits will alike improve beneath the silent influences of beautiful 
nature. I am myself so much of a country-girl, that I cannot con- 
ceive of any regular, systematic happiness, apart from the retirement 
and the silence of the country. More than half my misery in life 
arises from noise and discords. My sweetest idea of heaven is, that 
everything there is harmonious." 

Early in the month of July I went to Gloucester, Mass., 
and entered upon my ministry, as pastor of the Independent 
Christian Society, in that town. On the 2Sth of July we 
were married, and proceeded immediately to our new home. 



104 MEMOIR. 

No situation could have been more pleasing to us than the 
one in which we now found ourselves. The town of Glouces- 
ter possesses nfiany attractions for the lover of quiet life, 
without the deadness of human interest which often renders 
a residence in the country tedious. It is situated upon the 
slope of a hill, declining gradually toward the south to the water ; 
— before it a beautiful harbor, indented with coves, throwing 
a long arm inward, and relieved by islands and a narrow point 
of land running far out into the ocean, parallel with the main 
shore, beyond which lies the open sea ; — behind it a range 
of rocky hills, from whose summits can be seen a wide and 
varied prospect ; and its western extremity terminated by a 
broad curving beach. Towards the north-west several roads 
run away into a fertile agricultural district, through forests 
that would not disgrace the banks of the Connecticut ; and 
others at the east, lead to the village of Rockport, on the ex- 
tremity of the cape ; and, towards the north, wind over the hills 
to the village of Annisquam. Upon this cape is every kind 
of natural scenery. There are quiet coves, where the waves 
lose their force, and break gently upon the sand ; bold promon- 
tories, stretching into the ocean, where the foam and spray are 
always flying ; islands, out at sea, crowned with light-houses ; 
piles of rocks, full of caverns, through which the water gurgles 
and roars, like a great living creature struggling to escape 
confinement ; fleets of small vessels, always flitting about the 
horizon, and sometimes crowding the harbor in hundreds ; and 
beyond, in fine days, the blue southern shore, lifted up against 
the sky, like a faint picture ; the road " round the cape," per- 
haps the most delightful drive in New England, running over 
hills, by the side of little meadows, through avenues of willow- 
trees and forests, always in view of the sea ; quiet ponds of 
fresh water, hidden among the woods ; groves of pine-trees, 
where the wind overhead, and the sound of the waves upon 
the distant beach, unite in perfect harmony; pastures full of 
flowers, and damp thickets, w^here the Magnolia grows ; and 
towards the country, the beautiful hilly district of " West 
Parish," gradually ascending to " Mount Ann," from whose 
summit you look away over the tops of a hundred forests, to 



MEMOIR. 105 

the blue sea-line glittering upon the horizon, the monument 
of Bunker Hill, the highest spire of the village church, and 
the bay of Ipswich and its adjacent shores. Here, within the 
space of ten miles, is collected almost everything to charm the 
eye of the poet, or attract the investigation of the lover of 
science. Add to this the generous and proverbial hospitality 
of the people ; possessing in no stinted measure, the virtues 
peculiar to a sea-faring population ; the ease of communica- 
tion with the city ; the gay appearance of the place in the sum- 
mer months, when it is thronged with fashionable company ; 
and its perfect country quiet during the remainder of the year ; 
— and it may be conceived that there are few spots where we 
would have rather desired to spend our married days. 

Our situation was, in all respects, pleasant. The religious 
society is not so large as to exhaust me with labor ; yet suf- 
ficiently numerous, and composed of intelligent, and, what is 
yet more grateful to a minister, kind and sincere people. The 
church is a large building, in the architectural Style of the last 
century, situated at the extremity of a long avenue of trees ; 
so that in summer, the sound of the-wind and the birds among 
the branches comes in at the windows, and mingles with our 
worship. The house in which we boarded is a fine old man- 
sion, a yard full of horse-chestnut trees before, and a garden 
behind it, the front covered with ivy, having an outlook from 
the upper windows over the town and harbor ; and occupied 
by a family who have always shown us as much kindness as if 
we were of their own kindred. Our duties were not too ardu- 
ous, and we began life in Gloucester with the most cheering 
hopes of a long course of peaceful and useful existence. 

I cannot transfer to these pages the beautiful picture of that 
summer by the sea-side. We lived in a world of poetry and 
sacred beauty. The kindness of all around us smoothed every 
trial incident to the early days of professional life, and forgave 
all neglect of duty. We had many friends with us, and some 
of them will long remember the evenings when we sat in our 
room, the moon streaming in through the green branches and 
vines about the windows, listening to Sarah, as she read to us 
in a voice that no one who has heard her can ever forget. 



106' MEMOIR. 

Then, there were pleasant parties upon the beach and the 
rocks, rides into the neighboring towns, daily visits about the 
parish, and one afternoon excursion to an old church in the 
"West Parish," where we held a religious service at sunset, 
for which Sarah wrote one of her best hymns. The Sabbaths 
were days of the purest enjoyment. She engaged with me 
in the labors of our little Sabbath school, and in every way 
relieved as far as possible my feeble strength. In August our 
venerable father Jones, for many years the pastor of our soci- 
ety, died, and his funeral services were attended at the church 
by a throng of people of all religious sects. These are a few 
of the incidents that stand out most prominently in my mind, 
in the recollections of this summer. But little time was ap- 
propriated to literary pursuits, these being reserved for the 
more quiet months of autumn and winter. 

In August we visited Shirley Village, and also spent sev- 
eral days in the vicinity of Boston. The pretty church now 
completed at Shirley was dedicated at this time. Another 
excursion was made in November to Warwick. Thence we 
proceeded home, where we remained through the year. The 
following months, until January, were principally employed in 
literary and professional pursuits. Sarah resumed her German 
studies, and read in Schiller's plays and ballads. We also 
read the poetical works of Shelley together. To this first of 
modern English poets she was immediately attracted, and 
during the remainder of her life his books and those of Ten- 
nyson were oftener in her hands than those of any other writer 
in the language. She also read the critical works of Hazlitt 
and Carlyle. But her attention was chiefly directed to the 
writings of R. W. Emerson. There she found the highest 
spiritual philosophy clothed by a radiant poetical imagination ; 
and although she never gave a full intellectual assent to the 
system of this greatest of mystical writers, she acknowledged 
that to him she was indebted for much of the intellectual ac- 
tivity and calm faith of her last years. 

She wrote but little for publication. One of her best poems, 
however, " The Pervading God," belongs to this date. But 
the greater portion of her time was employed upon a work she 



MEMOIK. 107 

had been contemplating for many years. It was to contain, 
in the form of a novel, the spiritual autobiography of a woman 
from childhood to middle age. She had been long thinking 
of it, and all her best thoughts were reserved for its pages. 
Several times had she begun to write, but always became dis- 
satisfied and destroyed what she had written. The labor of 
this winter was no more successful towards its completion. 
She wrote and rewrote, and burned, and at the end of three 
months had only a few sheets of fragments, and gave up in 
despair, saying she must live many years more before she 
could attempt it. From a perusal of the pages I have, I regret 
that she had not continued ; — for, though fragmentary, they 
are greatly superior to anything in the present volume. Had 
she written the book, it would have been the history of her 
own soul, containing all those rich treasures of religious expe- 
rience which she had silently garnered up there. It was to be 
the great literary labor of her life, and would have included 
all she ever wrote, and more than any of us can say of her. 
Will it not be completed now, in a world where we trust noth- 
ing comes between a lofty purpose and its execution ? She 
also read one work of fiction, which produced a lasting im- 
pression upon her ; " Consuelo," by George Sand. It was the 
only work of this great novelist she ever read, and she re- 
garded it as the highest and most truly religious romance of 
the age. 

Among other social pursuits we derived great pleasure from 
a " Reading Circle," composed of such of our friends as Avere 
interested in literature. This, with the lectures of the village 
Lyceum, furnished an agreeable variety to our quiet and studi- 
ous life. Much of our time was also spent out of doors, in 
the pleasant autumn weather. She was never weary of wan- 
dering about the sea-shore, and would walk miles in a storm, 
to see the waves beating against the " Bass Rocks," or tum- 
bling in upon " Little Good-Harbor Beach." Thus passed 
away this beautiful period of time. She was as happy as any 
one is permitted to be in our earthly lot. She had gained all 
she hoped for in life ; the love of one entirely devoted to her ; 
a. sphere of active usefulness ; leisure, and a quiet atmosphere 



108 MEMOIR. 

for study ; and a residence among the grandest and loveliest 
scenes of nature. I can but faintly describe this period of five 
months. Of her constant gentleness and love, her devotion to 
me in all my hours of weariness, which continued ill health 
made frequent, her large benevolence and earnest longing to 
make known her good-will to all about her, I cannot trust 
myself to speak. Those who knew her, will understand that 
this meagre sketch is but the outline of a portrait to which 
their own recollections must impart grace and finished beauty. 

Happiness like this cannot long continue, and the succeed- 
ing five months were full of trial and labor. Early in Janu- 
ary, 1847, 1 was attacked by illness, which confined me several 
weeks to my chamber, and when I came out again, it was in 
a state that promised little for my health. I attempted, how- 
ever, to proceed with my professional duties, though unfit for 
the slightest mental exertion. She gave her time wholly to 
me, and books and pen were not thought of for several 
months. As soon as my strength would permit, we left town 
upon an excursion to Shirley village. There she was pros- 
trated by sudden illness, and for several days remained in a 
most alarming state. In three weeks, however, she was able 
to return home. Our time until the first of June, was em- 
ployed in preparations for housekeeping. We entered our 
own house on the first week in April. I well remember the 
evening, when we sat down together by a window in our study, 
and the first robin of the season sang to us from a tree in the 
garden. Here, for several weeks, she exerted herself by every 
method to aid in the improvement of my health, reserving no 
time for her own pursuits. The only book she read was 
" Margaret," the best of American novels ; a book of all others 
to be read in the spring, to one longing to escape from weari- 
ness and heated rooms to health and the open country. 

All her exertions were not able to recruit my strength, and 
my disease assumed an alarming form of nervous prostration. 
Relief from care, and perfect quiet, were essential to my recov- 
ery ; and painful as separation was, she had the fortitude to 
urge it. She compelled me to leave her, and go to the interior 
of the State, to spend the summer. In the last week in May 



MEMOIR. 109 

we left our beautiful home, and having spent anniversary-week 
in Boston, — a week of greater suffering than I ever before 
experienced, — went to Shirley village. How great the con- 
trast, from the confusion of tongues in the crowded city, to the 
glory of June weather by the side of Bow-Brook ! I remained 
a week with her, and then went to Warwick and thence to 
Northampton, to remain during the summer in the hydropathic 
establishment of Dr. E. Denniston. She returned to Glouces- 
ter, where we had left her brother John, who had come down 
from Cambridge to spend the season with her, and recruit his 
health. A few days after she arrived at home, she writes as 
follows to her sister : — 

" I felt lonely when I first came home, and hardly knew what to 
do with myself; but I am very contented now. The people have 
been very friendly to call on me. A friend sent me to-night the 
most beautiful geranium blossoms I ever saw — three varieties — of 
the richest vermilion, carmine, and softest purple hues. I have ar- 
ranged them in a dish of green mosses with wild flowers, and they 
quite dazzle my eyes with their splendor. To-day has been one of 
the finest I ever knew — such a delightful breeze from the sea, tem- 
pering the sun's heat. Gloucester does not look so much like a fairy 
land as Shirley, but it is very pleasant here now. I miss the brooks 
and meadows. We have nothing of the kind here, only a few woods, 
rocky hills, some damp thickets, where the wild flowers grow, and 
the interminable sea. My chamber is very pleasant, the window at 
which I wTite, overlooks the garden, and the robins, the head of the 
harbor, the long land-point, that stretches into the sea for several 
miles, and beyond a glimpse of the great ocean, with here and there 
a passing sail. It is not a good place to write though, unless I drop 
the curtain, for I spend half my time gazing at the different points of 
the landscape." 

I remained at Northampton until the first of September, my 
health gradually improving from the favorable influences of 
country quiet, beautiful scenery, and the efficient ministrations 
of water. During this time Sarah remained at Gloucester. 
She had much to occupy her attention, and never were the 
varied resources of her character better displayed than at this 
period. If she had misgivings, or hours of despondency, they 
were concealed from every one. Her letters to me were uni- 
10 



110 MEMOIR. 

formly cheerful, even gay, and filled with lively descriptions, 
that never failed to cheat my mind from depressing thoughts. 
She presided over a large household ; — her brother, Rev. T. 
S. King, and three other friends being with her ; — and the de- 
mands of society upon her time were also considerable. Not- 
withstanding this, she resumed her literary pursuits with usual 
vigor. Much of her leisure was given to the study of German 
with her brother and another friend. She also wrote a series 
of short articles for the Repository, and edited the " Rose." 
Her two best poems appeared in this volume of the annual, 
1848, " Saint Valentine's Eve," and " Eda." In the latter she 
has happily adopted the scientific theory of the gradual devel- 
opment of creation from inanimate forms to man, a theory that 
always had many poetical attractions for her. The story of 
the "Travelling Painter" was also written, with several trans- 
lations from the French and German poets. Her reading was 
confined to works translated from the German. Among these 
were Goethe's " Wilhelm Meister," " Correspondence with 
Schiller," and " Conversations with Eckermann." 

But the highest spiritual influence she enjoyed this summer 
was the intercourse with her brother. His college studies 
were now completed, and though interrupted in them by ill 
health, he had become a good scholar, and profound thinker. 
Upon all subjects his opinions were similar to hers, and a like 
calmness of nature, made their communion mutually elevating. 
They studied and conversed together, and made plans for fu- 
ture usefulness. He intended to devote himself ultimately 
to the study of theology, and was desirous of spending the 
years of his preparatory course in the universities of Germany. 
His more immediate project was, however, to edit a high re- 
ligious and literary Magazine, in connection with his sister ; 
and during the latter portion of the summer his attention was 
directed principally to the arrangements for this. He had 
secured the aid of many good writers in both departments, 
and proposed to issue the specimen number on the first of 
October. Sarah wrote for it the ballad of " Nora," and the 
best of her tales, " Esther;" which afterwards appeared in the 
" Rose" of 1849. ' These employments, varied only by a week 
at Shirley village, consumed the months of summer. 



MEMOIR. Ill 

I returned home early in September, and found our brother 
sick with a fever. Most of the family at Shirley village were 
also sick ; scarcely one being well enough to assist the others. 
The illness of John did not at first appear alarming, but he 
gradually sunk under it, until we felt his life to be in danger. 
On the 25th of September our little " Carrie " was bom ; but 
joy and sadness came to us united ; for our brother now rap- 
idly declined, and on the morning of the first of October he 
passed away. I have no words to describe the strength and 
faith of my beloved companion in this hour of bodily weakness 
and spiritual affliction. Though from her bed she could hear 
the voice of her brother in the moments of his delirium ; 
though all about her were overwhelmed by the suddenness of 
this dispensation, yet she never, for a moment, gave way to 
the expression of grief. There was no stoicism in her sub- 
mission; she shed no tears, because she had none to weep. 
Her soul was in a higher world than ours ; in the presence of 
realities, from which she could look down upon earthly trials 
with the composure of an angelic nature. From her bed she 
spoke comforting and cheerful words to us all, quieted the 
fears and grief of her servants, wrote letters of consolation to 
her friends, and watched her little one with all a mother's 
solicitude for her first-born. In the space of two weeks from 
John's death she had written six letters to her friends. I will 
copy these almost entire. The first, directed to her sister 
Mary, is dated 5 o'clock in the morning of October 1st, before 
her brother had ceased to breathe : — 

" You must make your soul as strong' as possible to receive the 
tidings I am compelled to send you. You are not unprepared, I sup- 
pose, to hear the worst of our dear brother, — the worst, so far as 
our earthly hopes are concerned — the best for him. He yet breathes, 
but it can be but for a few hours longer at most. The doctor told us 
last night that he never knew any one with such a pulse recover. 
He called in advice, and has been with him all night, administering 
everything that skill could dictate, but in vain. He lies perfectly 
quiet and unconscious, and will probably so depart. I hope, my dear 
Mary, we are all well enough instructed in Christian faith, not to 
repine at this severe stroke. Never was a soul better prepared than 
his for transition into the immortal state. For a year past that has 



112 MEMOIR. 

been his favorite theme. Recollect his thoughts and feelings ex- 
pressed at the close of the article on * Regeneration and Faith,' and 
his article this year on ' Immortality.' It is a great treasure to us to 
have his high views thus left to comfort us. May we all be as good 
and strong-hearted as he. He has said nothing of dying during his 
sickness. He has had everything done for him that we could do to 
make him comfortable. I must now close. In a few days I will 
write you a long letter. Give my best love to mother. She is per- 
petually in my thoughts, and all the tears I shed are for her, and the 
rest of you who will suffer. How many more of our circle must 
leave, we know not, but God knows, and that is enough." 

The next was written the fifth of the month, Sabbath morn- 
ing, to the Rev. Mr. King : — 

" On this beautiful Sabbath morning, holy and serene, when all 
nature is composed, and all heaven is at peace, shall I not make the 
hours of my solitude and weakness a season of grateful trust in God, 
and of consolation and good cheer to myself and you 1 Would that 
you were here, dear Starr ; the peace and courage that is in my own 
soul could not fail to impart itself to you. You would feel as I do. 
that our loss is not terrible, but that our gain is great. Yes, even in 
his dying hour itself, I felt that the immortal was to be to me the 
nearer companion, the trustier guide, the more perpetual joy and 
strength than ever the mortal had been, or could be ; that I was losing 
nothing, but gaining all, by that great transition of his soul from 
weakness and bondage to the freedom and power of the spiritual and 
immortal life. Never have I felt him gone, never can I. Can we, 
who have talked together so much, and always in such perfect sym- 
pathy of faith, respecting the nature of the future life, can we ever be 
separated by any failure of the bodily senses to recognize each other? 
Could John have known that he was to die, would he have ever told 
me that he was to part from me ? Oh, no ! His soul was as strong 
in the assurance of its perpetual consciousness and growth, as in that 
of its earthly existence, and he who never felt separated from the 
friends who had gone before him, will never abandon those he has 
left behind. It is this which makes me calm, yes, happy, strong, 
and full of solemn courage for the future struggle of life. It seems 
no mystery to me that he died. He had lived but a few years, but 
they were years of such rapid growth to his soul, that this life seemed 
to have nothing more left for him. He needed no more of its trials 
to instruct him. He was fully taught for a higher work than any 
that this life could furnish him. He had planned out an earthly task. 
He had resolved to devote himself to a high religious philosophy, and 



MEMOIR. llSf 

to teach to others the great truths that were daily unfolding them- 
selves in his soul. You know with what zeal and strong resolution 
he set about his plans for the ' Eclectic' Impracticable as his project 
seemed to many, I believe he would never have relinquished it till it 
had been crowned with success. It was the very mission he desired, 
and felt himself ripening for, — to be the conductor of such a work 
as his imagination had pictured . The first of October was to be the 
date of the first number. On that day God gave him another work ! 
Must we not believe it to be something infinitely higher and nobler 1 

" We are all sadly bereft, I know, looking at our loss in a com- 
mon light. You, and Mayo, and I were all looking to him as our 
intellectual leader, in many respects. Not superior in mental gifts, 
to afly one of us, perhaps ; he was yet unquestionably superior in 
strength of character, in completeness of development, in those reli- 
able qualities of mind and heart to which one could refer in all sea- 
sons, and upon all questions of doubt and difficulty. There is no 
earthly being upon whose judgment I ever relied so implicitly, with 
the exception of my husband, no being with whom I ever held such 
intimate spiritual communion. Probably, of his deeper spiritual nature, 
no person knew so much as myself. Nor did ever I know it till 
during the last summer, while we were alone here together in our 
studies, and forming together our plans for future usefulness. But 
I mourn not that all this is past — never will, never can, I mourn it 
God knows the true place for great souls to labor, and happy is that 
noble brother of ours, that he has been found worthy to be employed 
in a celestial sphere. 

" More I cannot write now, for I am yet weak in body, though 
well in soul. I feel that I have given you no adequate idea of my 
feelings ; I cannot explain them, hardly do I understand them ! They 
come of the heart's deep faith, which can never be told in logic. 
May you have the same peace that Mayo and I mutually experience, 
and doubtless you will have soon, when this sorrow is less new to 
you, and your own high views have had time to subdue the anguish 
of bereaved affection. John had no dearer friend than yourself. Let 
his memory always keep us three united in the closest of spiritual 
bonds." 

The next day she writes again to her sister : — 

" I hardly know how I have had strength to go through so much 
trial with so much success. The two greatest trials of my life seemed 
mingled together in one cup, as it were ; for though one was a trial 
of as much joy as affliction, even in its worst, it had none the less 
power to weaken and unnerve me. But, by resolute effort, and con- 
10* 



114 MEMOIR. 

Slant struggle with all that seemed melancholy and distressing, I 
have attained to an almost perfect triumph over my grief. Had 1 
been surrounded by society I could not have done it ; but the solitude 
of my own chamber, Mayo's cheering and consoling presence, and 
the care of my little Carrie, have all conspired to sustain and uplift 
me. It seems, too, like wronging John to weep for him. We have 
talked so much together, this summer, of the immortal life, that I 
should feel guilty in the presence of his spirit were I not to rely fully 
upon all he has taught me, and believe and feel the constant com- 
munion of his immortal nature. 

" We had a private funeral. Only a few of John's particular 
friends were present. Mayo gathered some beautiful asters, purple 
and white, and requested our friends to arrange them with other 
flowers about the room ; to place a wreath around my portrait, and 
another upon the coffin, wishing by these symbols to express our 
cheerful views of death. Some of those everlastings I brought from 
Shirley were mingled with white asters, in a wreath for the coffin, 
and fastened upon the glass, so that when the lid was shut they were 
enclosed." 

And, on the 16th, to a female friend : — 

" Ere this package reaches you, you will, doubtless, have re- 
ceived the melancholy explanation why I return your beautiful poems, 
— poems that would a few days earlier have received so grateful a 
welcome. 

" Our magazine is, of course, resigned — since the soul that called 
it into being has departed on a higher mission. My brother was 
taken sick about four weeks since, with typhus fever. It did not 
seem alarming, however, till within four or five days of his death. 
How great, in an earthly sense, his loss is to us, none but friends can 
know. A more beautiful, dignified, perfectly developed moral nature 
has rarely sanctified this earth. What his intellectual promise was, 
you can partially judge from the two articles that have been pub- 
lished in the last volumes of the ' Rose.' But I must not linger to 
speak of him. He is called to his heavenly and immortal work, and 
I have only to say, as I do reverently and earnestly in my deepest 
heart, — God's will be done." 

On the 10th, she writes to my sister : — 

" I knew how grieved you would be to hear of the death of our 
beloved brother ; for who could know him and fail to love him, or to 
be sad for his loss? I have borne the sudden and severe stroke much 
better than I should have deemed it possible, had it been previously 



MEMOIR. 115 

announced to me. His presence seems still as real as ever; and 
though disappointed in the hopes I had formed for him here, I know 
God has given him a nobler work to do in the spiritual and immortal 
life. 

" He probably had no intimations of his approaching departure. 
His sickness did not assume a very alarming form till he became 
delirious, and after that, his reason was at no time clear enough to 
recognize his condition. I did not see him for a week before his 
death. I deeply regretted my inability to wait upon his last moments, 
though everything was done for him that kindness and skill could do. 
Mayo gathered some flowers to adorn the room at the funeral, and to 
make a wreath for the cofEn. Four vases of beautiful white dahlias, 
mingled with wild asters, stood upon the mantelpiece ; a wreath of 
box and snow-berries surrounded my portrait, and another of pale 
asters, — everlastings that I brought from home, — and box, was laid 
upon the coffin lid, and when that was shut it was placed around his 
head . They tell me that so beautiful a sight was never seen as his 
face, with its sweet smile and speaking look, surrounded by this halo 
of flowers. Every one said they never saw anything so beautiful as 
the expression of his face in death. I could not see him, but I do not 
regret it, for I have now only the memory of his living smile." 

Again, on the 14th, to a female friend : — 

" I know not how to introduce a subject which has for the last fort- 
night been almost the only one in my thoughts, — may I not say in 
our thoughts'? For, if I mistake not, a spirit has departed, which to 
you also was infinitely dear. So sudden and so strange it seems ! 
Weeks of anxiety could not prepare me for it ; weeks of reflection 
cannot make it seem real. And yet, I can feel the full reality of his 
spiritual presence. I am not one hour without the strength derived 
from it. Not one prayer for help from him is unanswered. I see 
his calm, kind smile as distinctly as ever. And the weakness that I 
once strove to conceal from his high strength, I now confide to him, 
in the trust that it will be overcome by such communion. People 
come in to me looking so sad, I cannot think for some moments why 
it is. I forget entirely that I have any grief, till they remind me of 
it. And it is not grief; it deserves some gentler name— regret, per- 
haps, that the society of one so good, so strong, so sincere, should be 
lost to me ; that his gentle and cheerful presence can never again 
gladden my home ; that to his mother he can no more be a living 
pride and consolation ; to his brothers and sisters no more a gay and 
most beloved companion. I mourn him because others mourn, rather 



116 MEMOIR. 

than because that to me he is lost. One thing is true, — had we 
needed him, had earth needed him, he would have been left to us. 
Must we not believe that his work and his peers are elsewhere, and 
higher?" 

And, on the 29th, to the Rev. H. Bacon : — 

" I believe that circumstances have less effect upon me than upon 
many ; for certainly I see those around me more afflicted by my mis- 
fortunes than I am myself. Not that I am indifferent, or stoical, but 
from my long habit of leading an inward rather than an outward life, 
I am not sensible so much to outward changes. Though my brother 
is dead; (false word!) though my husband is absent; though my 
friends at home are sick and suffering, still I find myself as cheerful, 
as calm, and as contented as ever. This is chiefly owing, perhaps, 
to the comparative solitude in which my hours are spent. Sitting 
here in my little quiet chamber, with no one but my nurse and my 
baby to interrupt my meditations, I can easily compose my spirit to a 
state of elevated repose. Everything looks clear and harmonious. 
I see no mysteries, and hear no discords. ^When in the presence of 
suffering, however, I find it difficult to maintain this composure. I 
can endure my own pains and privations with much more fortitude 
than I can witness those of others. ******* Jt has 
been very hard for me to be absent from our family, in a time of so 
much tribulation. Very hard it was for them, too, especially my 
mother, to be deprived of the satisfaction of ministering to dear John's 
last wants. I, too, lay on my bed in the chamber beneath, and heard 
him call in his delirium, without the power to answer. Oh, that, 
dear friend, was for me a most trying night and day ! My life-expe- 
rience has nothing so painful. He was a beautiful and noble soul, 
most affectionate in his nature, the pride, and hope, and joy, of his 
friends. Never do I think to look upon his like again. But from 
me he has not gone ; oh, no ! if he were, my heart would break." 

I must be permitted, notwithstanding all she has so truly 
said, to linger a moment about the memory of our dear brother. 
He was, in all respects, a noble man. To intellectual fwwers 
of the highest order, he united the deepest feeling, and the 
grace of a fine person and engaging manners. No one could 
have seen him without believing that he was made to do a 
great work. He possessed that calm and indomitable en- 
ergy of purpose, which is the surest indication of greatness; 
his judgment was ripe beyond his years, far seeing, and 



MEMOIR. 117 

decisive ; and we all leaned upon him instinctively, as if 
weakness could not touch a being so self-sustained, or the 
troubles of others disturb a love so disinterested. In reli- 
gious culture he was truly a Christian ; spiritual and strong, 
devout and practical. His favorite study was religious phi- 
losophy, and during the previous summer his meditations and 
conversations were directed to the subject of the immortality 
of the soul, with an intensity which was almost prophetic of 
his approaching translation. The results of these thoughts 
were expressed in an article written for the " Rose" of 1848, 
entitled " Immortality," in its literary execution inferior only 
to its high spiritual tone. I never read it without feeling 
it to be the appropriate expression of one to whom the 
solemn mysteries of eternity are opening, while he gathers 
up the folds of his earthly garments, and stands with upturned 
face calmly awaiting the voice that shall call him on high. 
We will not say he went aivay too soon, for he has often 
been with us since, and we feel that in the last trying moment 
of nature he will not be absent. 

The condition of my health demanding that I should return 
to Northampton, I left Sarah the last of October. In a few 
days she went to Shirley village to spend the time of my ab- 
sence. The family at home were now slowly recovering, and 
joyfully welcomed the strongest of their number back to the 
household. A few days after her arrival, she writes thus to 
a friend at Gloucester : — 

" While my little Carrie is asleep, I must write you a few lines, 
for my heart yearns toward Gloucester, and I wish much to know 
how you are all prospering in my absence. You, perhaps, will also 
like to hear of me. At any rate, I do not like to be forgotten, and 
shall occasionally remind you of my existence. 

" We arrived home safely, at three o'clock of the day we left 
Gloucester. I found my friends all improved in health. Mother's 
countenance startled me, pale and thin as I am accustomed to see her 
look. But she is able to be about the house, and to ride out, for 
which we all feel deeply grateful, as we indeed ought ; for if ever a 
guardian angel watched over mortal beings, such a guardian has 
our mother been to us. My brothers are able to limp about the 
streets, and are now in a state to make sport of their discomforts. 



lis MEMOIR. 

We find ourselves very happy together, notwithstanding the deep 
sorrow that each one feels, but no one utters. The pride, the glory 
of our house is gone. How keenly I feel it here, where, at every 
step, I meet traces and memories of the departed. His pure and ten- 
der spirit seems to have consecrated every spot of home. Only a 
few weeks since we were together here, in the room where I now 
sit, forming prospects for coming years. At this table we drew the 
plan of a noble enterprise, in which he was to be leader. The very 
walls have scarcely yet lost the echo of the hopes he then uttered. 
Amid such mementoes of bereaved love and frustrated plans, how 
deeply do I rejoice in the consciousness of his spiritual presence. 
How many times do I feel my tears reproved by a voice that addresses 
my soul that says, — ' I am ever with you, sister.' It is this only 
that sustains me ; for did 1 feel him indeed gone, then all were gone ; 
for the whole universe could not satisfy or console me without 
him. 

" I have heard from my husband since I came here. He is still 
improving in health, and impatiently looking forward to his return. 
His physician feels confident that two months will cure him ; but we 
dare not be too sanguine. It seems too much happiness to have him 
well, and to be able to return to Gloucester together once more. My 
life has been so broken up by disappointments, that I long since gave 
up the habit of expecting anything. For that reason, perhaps, afflic- 
tions do not overwhelm me as they do those who have experienced 
them less. Sometimes a sweet dream haunts me of happy life spent 
in Gloucester ; of a home there filled with peace and industry, and 
love ; of my husband ministering to a people who have endeared 
themselves to us by a thousand kindnesses ; of my daughter grow- 
ing in goodness and filling our house with joy. But it seems to me 
a dream, rather than anything really destined to be. 

" I pass my time very pleasantly, because very busily, here, divided 
between literary and maternal cares. I study two languages — Ger- 
man and ' baby-talk' — the latter the more interesting of the two. 
* * * * So life passes with us. Shall I not, through you, 
hear of the welfare of our Gloucester friends 1 1 think of you all 
many times a day, and with a peculiar interest, such as I feel for no 
other people. 

" Shall I ever forget, or cease to love, a place hallowed to me by the 
entrance of one dear spirit into hfe, and the departure of another to 
immortality 1 Shall I ever forget, or cease to love, the people who 
have been friends to him, and more than friends to us? To all these 
friends, when they speak of me, give my kind remembrance." 



MEMOIR. 119 

I remained in Northampton a month, during which time, 
she was principally occupied in the delightful care of her 
child. Yet her studies were not entirely neglected. A few 
good books were read : The " Autobiography of Goethe," 
Miss Austin's " Characteristics of Goethe," and " Martin," by 
Eugene Sue. Of the latter she writes thus : — 

" I have done little except read ' Martin,' since you left. I found 
it extremely interesting, of course, and the interest was of a more 
pleasing character than that of the ' Wandering Jew.' As a work 
of art, it is not so complicated. -It shows up frightfully the evils of 
the existing state of society, the miseries and inevitable crimes of the 
poor, the recklessness and cold-blooded tyranny of the rich. In our 
happier land, it is almost impossible to believe that such horrors can 
anywhere exist ; and yet we have evidences every day, that society 
with us has its deplorable injustices and wrongs. ' Martin' is a 
strong book for the Associationists ; it will give a more popular ap- 
prehension of their doctrines than a thousand logical treatises. The 
characters are well drawn and sustained. The prudish will find the 
same objections that have been urged against the ' Mysteries of 
Paris,' not perceiving that there is a great difference between show- 
ing up crime and loathsome depravity in a humorous or alluring 
manner, and exhibiting it in its naked horrors, as an evil that must be 
hunted unto the death." 

She also read and translated many of the charming poems 
of Uhland, intending to prepare the entire volume for publica- 
tion, but domestic cares interfered with the plan, and it was 
finally abandoned. 

In November I returned to her, better in health than I had 
been for several years. We immediately returned to Glouces- 
ter, and spent the month of December in domestic arrange- 
ments. The beginning of the year 1848 found us again set- 
tled, in a new home, with thankful hearts, looking forward to 
a renewal of professional labors. 

During the winter and spring, until the first of May, we 
remained at home, and I can truly say, that I never enjoyed 
four months of higher spiritual peace. It was a daily bless- 
ing to live with Sarah, for she had overcome the world, and 
communicated the tranquillity of her own mind to all around 
her. She dwelt in no mystical region of communion with 



120 MEMont. 

Heaven, but her daily life was glorified by the presence of 
God. Never was she more scrupulous in the performance of 
the minutest household duties than now ; and her care for her 
child was constant. In the new sphere of maternal duty she 
displayed the same tenderness, directed by strong common 
sense, as in all former conditions of her life. As far as was 
consistent with domestic employments, her social relations 
were also resumed ; but her time was principally occupied in 
her own house. 

She continued her German studies with increasing inter- 
est, almost to the exclusion of English reading. Much time 
was given to Goethe, whose works she read with ever increasing 
delight. She also commenced the study of Plato, several of 
whose dialogues she read in Cousin's French Translation. 
Of these she translated aloud to me " Euthyphron," "The 
Apology of Socrates," " Phsedo," and " The Banquet." Two 
such writers, of course, excluded most others from her thoughts. 
Yet her favorite volumes of religious reading, " Martineau's 
Endeavors after the Christian Life," were often in her hands. 
She writes thus of her pursuits, in a letter to a friend : — 

" I have read ' Herman and Dorothea,' and ' Idyl,' by Goethe, this 
winter, and have been perfectly charmed with it ; and I am now 
reading ' Elective Affinities' ; have read only about fifty pages, so I 
cannot form much of an opinion of the work, but on every page I am 
struck with Goethe's remarkable insight into all the little peculiari- 
ties of human character, and the perfectly easy and natural manner 
in which they are displayed. The doctrine of ' Elective Affinities' 
has been broached in a conversation upon Chemistry, which is held 
by the characters of the story. When I write again, if I do not for- 
get it, I will tell you something of the manner in which this doctrine 
is illustrated by the narrative. 

" I spend so much time on German, that I get little time for other 
reading. We like the ' Princess' exceedingly. It shows a greater 
versatility of power than I supposed Tennyson possessed. He is, 
par excellence, the poet of the age. 

" I have read ' Jane Eyre,' and am much pleased with it, though 
it is not without faults. I think Jane's character is vigorously por- 
trayed, and though some ladies accuse her of ' coarseness,' I can see 
nothing in her conduct inconsistent with the truest impulses of a 
noble, 'H'omanly nature." 



MEMOIK. 101' 

The experience of the last year had elevated her nature to 
a higher plane of thought and meditation. In her social in- 
tercourse there appeared a chastened tenderness and self-pos- 
session more engaging than the enthusiastic manner of former 
years. Her intellectual tastes were purified ; she read none 
but the highest books, and wrote nothing. In fact, at one 
time she determined not to publish again. " I shall never 
write good poetry till I go to heaven," she one day said, in 
reply to my expressions of regret at this determination. The 
same elevation of feeling was discoverable in her religious 
nature. If her Christian sympathies had been liberal before, 
they now became universal. Any expression of sectarian par- 
tiality, from whatever source, was received in a manner which 
would have convinced any one that she was a member only 
of the great spiritual church of her Master. Our conversa- 
tions of the departed were always cheerful. She felt their 
presence to be no interruption to the joys or the merriment 
of social intercourse. She was in truth ripening for another 
existence. 

In the last days of April we went to Shirley village and 
Warwick, where we remained three weeks. It was a season 
of great happiness. One incident I cannot forget ; a ride to a 
wild glen in Warwick, on the first of May, from which we 
returned with a wagon piled with flowers of the arbutus, and 
green mosses torn from the rocks. We returned home, and 
soon after, I went to Boston to spend the week of the anniver- 
saries. Durhig my absence she resumed her pen, and wrote 
two short tales, and the poems of "The Adventure," "Con- 
templation," " Devotion," and the " Shadow-Child," for the 
" Rose " of 1849 ; — the editing of which she had again reluc- 
tantly undertaken. The " Shadow-Child " was the last poetry 
she wrote, and there was a beautiful propriety that her first 
and last written words should express the same class of sen- 
timents ; the latter being an utterance of her maternal love, 
and the former of her girlish attachment to her favorite dog, 
and the robins that sang upon the branches of the elm-trees 
over her father's roof. 

The month of June was busily employed in study. We 
11 



122 MEMOIR. 

read together the drama of " Wallenstein," in the German of 
Schiller, and the " Rose " was passing through press. Social 
habits were resumed, and we began to anticipate the pleasure 
of the summer months ; resolved that the happiness of others 
should more directly concern us this season than it had ever 
before. A delightful visit from her mother and sister will not 
be forgotten by those of us who are left. But the time of her 
departure was approaching. On the first Sabbath of July she 
atttended church and received the communion. In the after- 
noon the Unitarian and Universalist societies united in the 
funeral services of Mr. William Babson, an aged and beloved 
member of our parish. I preached a discourse upon the " Sep- 
aration of Friends." Little did I think that the meditations 
of that week were to prepare my soul for the solemn scenes 
of the few coming days. On that Sabbath eve we talked of 
the immortality of the soul, and I read to her the outlines of a 
discourse I had been contemplating upon this subject. She 
spoke of her brother, and said that every night, for months, she 
had seen him so vividly in dreams that he seemed to be with 
her during the day. 

On Monday and Tuesday she was slightly indisposed, but 
desired me to go upon a short excursion to recruit my energies 
somewhat wasted by the anxieties of the last week. On my 
return, Tuesday evening, I found her upon the bed, from 
which she never rose. Her illness hurried her on to death 
with a rapidity, which no medical skill could arrest. On 
Friday she revived, and all believed she would recover. 
Her conversation was cheerful, and she assured me that the 
violence of her disease had abated. But at night it returned 
with increased power, and on Saturday morning I felt that 
she must be called away. Her intense sufTering prevented 
her from talking with us till Sabbath noon. Then her pain 
left her, and she lay with a heavenly smile upon her face 
awaiting her departure. As we stood around her bed we felt 
the impotence of death in the presence of the immortal spirit. 
No anxieties for our welfare disturbed her, but the calm radi- 
ance of her eyes and the low melody of her voice, as she 
looked upon us and spoke of death, were like that of a spirit 



MEMOIR. 123 

that has seen the heaven to which it is hastening. At sunset 
she sunk into a state of unconsciousness, and when darkness 
fell upon the earth she passed to her eternal home. 

We carried her to her burial arrayed in the flowers she loved. 
Her mortal remains now rest in the beautiful cemetery of her 
native village, almost under the shadow of the church spire, 
upon the brow of a hill, whose base is washed by Bow-Brook. 
" I have work to do in heaven, but I will always be with you," 
were her last words to me, and when on the Sabbath follow- 
ing I spoke to my people on the " Immortality of the Soul," 
we felt that she was indeed among us ; and we trust that her 
high example has not been lost, but has aided us to accept 
the affliction of her departure in the spirit of him who said in 
his hour of trial, " Father, not my will but thine be done." 

If I have succeeded in presenting a faithful picture of the 
subject of this Memoir, no one can fail to understand her char- 
acter, whether expressed in her life, correspondence, or literary 
productions. Her nature was as simple as it was deep and 
beautiful, and can be expressed by no other word than that 
which was always upon her lips — Love. Love for everything 
great, and good, and beautiful ; — Love for these qualities so 
intense, that it could separate them from the repulsive union 
with gross aflfections in which they are too often found in 
human character; — Love so disinterested that her life was 
always more in the wants and sympathies of others, than of 
herself; flowing out, not only in the form of benevolence and 
kindness, but of confidence in man, and a willingness to im- 
part the richest treasures of her heart, to bless the humblest 
one about her ; — rising like a constant hymn of praise to the 
Father of love, and giving to every act of life an unconscious 
grace and sanctity caught from a converse with spiritual 
realities — this is the beginning and end of her character. 
Of those arts by which we endeavor to supply the place of 
genuine emotion she knew nothing ; for her own interest or 
reputation she was not concerned ; she was always so devoted 
to those nearest her that she had no time to study her own 
fancies, or regret that they were not gratified. Neither was 



124 MEMOIR. 

this a sickly or sentimental manifestation of affection. It was 
not that shallow affectionateness which takes the form of an 
incessant craving for sympathy, and a boundless demand upon 
the good offices of others ; — a sentiment which, at best, is 
only the most interesting form of selfishness ; — her nature 
was singularly healthy, her love as honest and hearty as it 
was refined and penetrating. She loved, because she could 
not help it, and with the whole force of her being. 

The power of this sentiment was the source of all the 
strength and beauty of her character. It preserved her from 
a life of diseased introspection, to which the retired and studi- 
ous are so much exposed. It elevated the lowest duties per- 
formed for the welfare of others to the dignity of religious 
acts ; it made her content in any spot, and under any circum- 
stances, for deep and constant affection can annihilate distance, 
and overlook present inconvenience, in the intensity of its con- 
ceptions, and its self-sufficing suggestions ; it gave her faith in 
God in the darkest hours, for love in our own souls, is the only 
thing that can assure us of the omnipotence of love in the 
universe ; it imparted that unconscious gentleness and grace 
to her person, her manners, and conversation, that no one 
could resist ; it was the seat of a reserved energy which the 
heaviest pressure of discouraging circumstances could develop, 
but never overcome ; it was also the source of the ease with 
which she threw off the burden of care, and became a very 
child in her enjoyment of humor and gayety. Where love 
exists, as in her nature, it is the great interpreter of all mani- 
festations however opposite, for it contains, in a comprehensive 
unity, the elements of the widest diversity. 

And in the depth of this sentiment must be found the key 
of interpretation to all she wrote. Of the selections from her 
writings, contained in this volume, considered as literary pro- 
ductions, it does not become me to express an opinion more 
fully than I have in the progress of the narrative. I may, 
however, remark, that any criticism of them which is not 
based upon a thorough comprehension of her character and 
life, will be unjust and false. For she Avrote sincerely, if a 
human being ever did. Her lines glow with her own ex- 



MEMOIR. 125 

perience ; — they are a record of her own toils, and joys, and 
sorrows, the chronicle of her highest intercourse with Nature, 
Man, and God. That she should fail to give full utterance to 
herself is not strange, when we consider the disparity between 
her outward and inward life. It pleased her Father that, for 
some future state of being, should be reserved the complete 
expression of that nature, which was a poem and a prayer. 
Her literary reputation is safe in the hearts of those who knew 
and understood her ; and let no other one presume to test it by 
artificial rules, and thus betray his own ignorance of the laws 
which regulate the motions of love, when it speaks out of its 
deep and sacred places to the world. 

I close this inadequate memoir of my sainted wife with a 
feeling of profound thankfulness to God that I have been 
spared to pay even a feeble tribute to her worth. May it be 
received by those whom we both loved in a spirit of charity 
which overlooks all deficiences. None of us can say the best 
thing we know about her ; or tell what she has done for us. 
That can be seen only by the faith which we exhibit in sub- 
mission to the great affliction of her loss, and the higher life, 
by which, during our allotted time upon earth, we prove our- 
selves the partakers of her spirit, and make ourselves fitting 
companions for her in that world where we shall know each 
other and know God forever. 

Gloucester, April 8, 1849. 



11* 



MRS. S. C. E. MAYO. 

BY MRS. H. J. W. LEWIS. 
" I do not weep for thee ; —I have not wept ! " — S. C. E. Mato. 

Sister, friend, poetess, a long farewell ! 

There needs' not many words to paint my grief. 
Wife, Mother, Nature's Priestess ! who can tell 

The sum of all thy joys in life so brief! 
The beauty of thy" daily walk they know 

"Who dwelt within the circle of thy love — 
Thy calm pure faith, thy truth like spotless snow, 

Thy spirit strong, yet gentle as the dove ! 
And shall we hear no more the strain sublime, 

Or soft, or touching, thou hast breathed so well? 
Can we resign thee in thy life's sweet prime, 

And, lost to earth, give thee with God to dwell? 
1 have wept burning tears, and still must weep, 
That one so great and good should fall asleep ! 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 



1837. 



TOKENS. 

Thou, on the throne of heaven ! 

Who 'rt bidding stars speed forth with light and song, 
What token hast thou given, 

To lead thy children hopefully along ? 

All tokens hast thou given ; 

Buds to the tree of fall, stars to the night, 
Rainbows to clouded heaven. 

And to the polar skies, a mystic light. 

Sunshine to earth's decay. 

Awakening winds to early hours of spring, 
Music to dawning day, 

And life, and hght, and joy to everything. 

A Lamb without a spot. 

Slain on the altar for our sinful race — 
What tokens have we not. 

Father of love ! to speak thy boundless graoe ! 



TO MY SISTERS. 

Ye haVe seen the bow in the eastern sky, 
When the shade past off from Apollo's eye ; 
Ye have marked its soft and varied light — 
Can ye tell the lines where its hues unite 1 
Our hearts are a rainbow of varied dye, 
Blended as softly as that of the sky. 

Ye have marked the pansy, that lowly flower, 
That smiles at the frown of the wintry hour ; 



128 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Its petals may differ when blooming apart, 
But they wear one hue at the fragrant heart. 
Our spirits are leaflets of separate hue, 
But one at the linking — they 're all of them true. 

Ye have seen three stars of a different light, 

Enriching the brow of the cloudless night ; 

And though not bound by a visible tie. 

Yet they move like one through the azure sky. 

Our souls are stars of a differing ray, 

But they speed like one on the same bright way. 

Ye have seen the birds of the same dear nest. 
Forsaking the shade of their mother's breast ; 
But though straying apart in the leafy grove. 
They soar in a group to the fields above. 
Though here, like those birds we may widely roam, 
Together we '11 rise to our heavenly home ! 

1838. 



THE CROWN OF LIFE. 

There 's a crown for the monarch, a golden crown- 
And many a ray from its wreath streams down, 
Of an iris hue from a thousand gems, 
That are woven in blossoms on jewelled stems. 
They 've rifled the depths of Golconda's mine. 
And stolen the pearls from the ocean brine ; 
But the rarest gem, and the finest gold, 
On a brow of care lies heavy and cold. 

There 's a crown for the victor, of lotus-flowers, 
Braided with myrtle from tropical bowers ; 
And the golden hearts of the nymphaea gleam 
From their snowy bills, with a mellow beam. 
They have stript the breast of the sacred Nile, 
And ravished the bowers of the vine-clad isle ; 
But the sweetest flower from the holy flood. 
And the vine, will fade, on a brow of blood ! 

There 's a crown for the poet, a wnreath of bay — 
A tribute of praise to his thrilling lay. 
The amaranth twines with the laurel bough. 
And seeks a repose on his pensive brow. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 129 

They 've searched in the depths of Italia's groves, 
To find out the chaplet a poet loves ; 
But a fadeless wreath, in vain they have sought — 
It withers away on a brow of thought. 

There 's a crown for the Christian, a crown of life, 
Gained in the issues of bloodless strife. 
T is a halo of hope, of joy, and of love, 
Brightened by sunbeams from fountains above. 
They 've gathered its rays from sources afar, 
From seraphim's eyes, and Bethlehem's star ; 
And the flow of its hght will ever increase. 
For a Christian's brow, is a brow of peace. 



1838. 



THE GOOD SHEPHERD. 

There was a tender Shepherd, and he dwelt 

In Palestine. His faithful lambs were fed 
Upon the sweetest herbage, and they knelt 

With grateful hearts, and found a welcome bed 
Close at his feet. Devotedly they loved 

Their gentle Guide, and followed in his track. 
Like waiting angels ; or, if any roved 

Unguardedly, he sought, and brought them back. 

He was so good a Shepherd, and his flock 

Were watched with such untiring care, and led 
To such sweet founts — such as th' eternal Rock 

Alone e'er yielded, — were so richly fed 
And kindly sheltered, many sought his fold 

From other flocks, and humbly begged a share ; 
Nor was the weakest pleader ever told 

To turn away, for all were welcome there ! 

Then was the Shepherd summoned to a land 

Far from the country of his faithful sheep : 
He called together all his dear-loved band 

Of brethren ; and he bade them safely keep 
His helpless flock, and feed his lambs, — for foes, 

Clad in the guise of friends, would seek to win 
Their guileless hearts, and many fearful woes 

Would hard beset them, — from without, within. 



130 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

When to his mourning flock he gently spake : 

" Ye little ones, I go — 't is to prepare 
A better place for you ; but, for my sake, 

Be careful of your safety. ! beware 
Of false, enticing thieves, for they will seek 

To lead my little lambs astray. Ye know 
Your own true Shepherd's voice — and when I speak, 

Then shall ye follow, wheresoe'er I go. 

" Beloved, do not grieve that I depart — 

A little while, and we shall meet again ; 
Then will I lead you, cherished of my heart, 

To a far sweeter pasture, to a plain 
Where living waters flow, and soothing shades 

Give peace and joy ; where sorrow, pain, and cold. 
Can never enter ; where no foe invades — 

But one Good Shepherd guards one peaceful fold." 

1838. 



"THE PURE IN HEART SEE GOD." 

In the lone deU and by the leaping fountain. 
Where the moss springeth by the hazel-rod. 
By the wild rose-tree on the rugged mountain, 

The pure in heart see God. 
They see him where the wild cascade is foaming 
Above the dark and deeply-fretted rocks, 
And where, through primrose-meadows meekly roaming, 

Are feeding snow-white flocks. 

Where crested waves o'er rocks are wildly dashing. 
Where nought but venturous mermaid e'er hath trod. 
Where scattered sea-gems in the light are flashing, 

The pure in*heart see God. 
They see him in the dim and tangled wild-wood. 
Where dreamy music haunts the hollow ground ; 
They see him in the rosy bowers of childhood, 

Where light and song abound. 

In the gay city, where earth's golden splendor 
Starts from its hidden caves, and roams abroad ; 
Where crowds, to empty pomp, their peace surrender, 
The pure in heart see God. 



1838. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 131 

They see him in the cot, where bendeth lowly 
The humble worshipper at God's own shrine, 
Whose mind is fixed on heaven, whose heart is holy, 
Whose hopes are all divine. 

Where the green willow on the grave low traileth, 
Where the gweet pansy weeps upon the sod, 
Where all the pride of man in terror faileth, 

The pure in heart see God. 
They see him where the gate of heaven wide swingeth. 
And they are led by angel-hands within ; 
Where Jesus all his fold together bringeth, 

Without a trace of sin. 



THE TEMPTATION IN THE WILDERNESS. 

With the celestial baptism on thy soul. 
Thou wert led lonely to the dim old wood, 

Where even flower-bells have a low, sad toll, 
As they bend down to die in solitude. 

Through long, long days and lonely nights, in prayer 

And solemn fasting, dwelt thy spirit there. 

But, human wants were with thee — human cares, 
That ushered many a pang upon thy breast ; 

Wasted and faint, thy mortal frame scarce bears 
The burden of its being ; then the test, 

The cruel test of the Arch-fiend was given ! 

But thy unblenching eye turned not from heaven. 

Weary and lonely as thou wert, blest Lord ! 

Stricken with want, and far from earthly friends, 
Still the deep magic of the tempter's word 

Could bend thee, but as holy Zion bends, 
When the soft air sweeps by. Ay, thou, unarmed. 
With all man's frailties on thee, wert not harmed ! 

Did not the thought of man, dear Son of God, 
Come like a strengthening angel to thine aid ■? 

For pure thy life must be, or thou hadst trod 
Thus far thy mortal path in vain ; and made 

No long, blest journeyings to the sacrifice, 

For which thou wert detained beneath the skies. 



132 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

O what an empire was by thee laid low, 
When thou didst bid the wily fiend depart ! 

His power resisted ! his, the mighty foe, 

Whose chains had fettered every human heart ! 

Slowly he coiled the malice in his breast. 

As he turned back, and left thee to thy rest. 

Then with soft, fluttering wings, bright angels came, 
And bore their golden salvers in their hands ; 

Through leafy boughs they called upon thy name, 
And gathered round thee in adoring bands ; 

Then back to heaven with lightened wings did flee, 

Bearing thy thanks to God for victory ! 
1838. 



BOW BROOK. 



Far in a wild and tangled glen. 

Where purple Arethusas weep — 
A bower scarce trod by mortal men — 

A haunt where timid dryads sleep — 
A little dancing, prattling thing. 

Sweet Bow-Brook, tutor of my muse ! 
I 've seen thy silver currents spring 

From fountains of Castalian dews. 

A wilder, or more sylvan spot, 

Ne'er wooed a poet's feet to roam ; 
Not e'en Calypso's classic grot 

Would be so fit a fairy's home. 
The birchen boughs, so interlaced, 

That scarce the vault of heaven is seen, 
With pendant vines are wildly graced — 

An arbor of transcendent green. 

And rustic bridge, a frail support 

For Cinderella's tiny foot, 
And waves where naiades might sport 

Beneath some sweet aquatic root ; 
And further down, a mimic lake. 

Where dark green woods o'erlook the tide, 
And fragrant shrubs and feathery brake 

Spring up along its grassy side. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Oh, how my heart doth wildly thrill 

At every thought of that lone spot, 
Whose fragrant solitude, sweet rill. 

Thy beauty into being brought ! 
And murmur not, that thou art made 

An humble poet's favorite theme ; 
For thou, sweet lyrist of the glade. 

Thyself art but an humble stream. 

And beautiful as e'er thou art. 

They make thee labor at the wheel, 
To ply the shaft, and swell the mart 

With products of the loom and reel. 
But much enraged at such constraint, 

Away thou 'rt gliding, big with grief, 
To breathe thy piteous complaint 

To every sympathizing leaf. 

Upon thy tall, o'erhanging elms. 

Gay birds, with blue and golden breasts, 
Returned in troops from austral realms. 

Found colonies of grassy nests. 
They are protected — guileless birds ! 

For tender guardians dwell around ; 
And oft, with keen, reproving words. 

They drive the huntsman from the ground. 

In olden days the Indian maid. 

With braided tresses sought thy bowers, 
And rifled every sunlit glade 

To wreathe her locks with scarlet flowers. 
Some chieftain of the forest wove 

The blushing card'nals o'er her brow. 
While by thy waves he breathed his love 

In many a deep and fervent vow. 

How oft, along thy verdant shore, 

I seek to find some lingering trace 
Of those who made, in days of yore. 

Thy banks their favorite hunting-place — 
Yet vain the search — no trace is found. 

To tell that ever dusky maid. 
Or warrior chief hath trod the ground , 

Where now, perchance, their bones are laid. 

12 



133 



134 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Upon thy bonny banks, sweet stream, 

My home succeeds the Indian brave's ; 
My infant eye first caught its beam. 

Reflected from thy clouded waves. 
And oft I tread the grassy slope, 

Which leads me to thy rose-bound shore, 
With ardent and increasing hope 

To catch some fragment of thy lore. 

When comes the holy hour to die, 

How sweet to rest beside thy wave ! 
How sweet beneath thy banks to lie, 

With violets waving o'er my grave ! 
And yet I would not cast a shade 

Upon a spot so bright and glad ; 
A tomb would mar so fair a glade. 

And friends would find thy borders sad. 

Glide on, forever, warbling brook ! 

Earth has no voice more dear than thine — 
And often, in some flowery nook, 

I '11 swell the lay with tones of mine. 
Beneath the arch of some green bough. 

Where mellow sunbeams softly glance, 
I '11 cast the shadows from my brow, 

And read to thee some gay romance. 
A few short years, or days may be. 

And thou wilt miss me from thy shore ; 
Yet earth will still be fair to thee. 

As e'er it was in days of yore. 
And I shall sit upon the bank 

Of that pure river of my God , 
Where sin, nor grief has ever drank, 

And no polluting foot hath trod ! 
1838. 



TYPES OF HEjWEN. 
Why love I the lily-bell. 
Swinging in the scented dell ? 
Why love I the wood-notes wild, 
Where the sun hath faintly smiled ? 
Daisies, in their beds secure, 
Gazing out so meek and pure ? 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Why love I the evening dew 
In the violet's bell of blue 1 
Why love I the vesper star, 
Trembling in its shrine afar 1 
Why love I the summer night, 
Softly weeping drops of light 1 

Why to me do woodland springs 
Whisper sweet and holy things ? 
Why does every bed of moss 
Tell me of my Saviour's cross 1 
Why in every dimpled wave 
Smiles the light from o'er the grave? 

Why do rainbows seen at even 
Seem the glorious paths to heaven ? 
Why are gushing streamlets fraught 
With the notes from angels caught 1 
Can ye tell me why the wind 
Bringeth seraphs to my mind 1 

Is it not that faith hath bound 
Beauties of all form and sound. 
To the dreams that have been given, 
Of the holy things of heaven 1 
Are they not bright links that bind 
Sinful souls to Sinless Mind ? 

From the lowly violet sod, 
Links are lengthened unto God. 
All of holy — stainless — sweet — 
That on earth we hear or meet. 
Are but types of that pure love. 
Brightly realized above. 

How could beauty be on eaith, 
Were it not of heavenly birth 1 
Foul things perish, but the pure, 
Long as angels, will endure. 
Stars, and founts, and azure sky, 
Shine when clouds and tempests die. 

Say ye that the rose decays ? 
Ay, the ^wer, but not its rays — 
Not its color — not its scent — 
They were holy beauties lent ; — 



135 



1^ 



1839. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

That may perish — 'tis but dust- 
But it yieldeth back its trust. 

Fragrance cometh from the air, 
And in time returneth there ; 
Color cometh from the sky — 
Thither goeth, ne'er to die ; 
Foul things perish, but the pure, 
Long as angels, shall endure. 



THE LAST SUPPER. 
Soft night-winds through the lattice steal — sweet guests 
Unwooed, yet ever welcome to the bells 
Of reverential flowers. Dim moonlight rests 
Where their abiding exhalation dwells, 
'Mid the entwining of young blossoms ; there 
Losing its chaster beauty in the glare 
Of the bright-flashing torches. Through wild dells, 
Where Cedron murmurs, came it, laden thence 
With odors all impalpable to earthly sense. 

Through that balcony streaming, what see they, 

Those startled moonbeams ? Festive garlands, strung 

O'er groups of dancers in their bright array 1 

Or dripping fountains, through dim grottoes flung 

With low, bewildering music ? — Son of God ! 

Thou who through guileful snares hadst guiltless trod ! 

Was not their timid radiance o'er Thee hung, 

Where, on the board, mysterious emblems stood, 

Broken and trickling then, as would thy heart and blood ? 

Soft parted on thy meek and spiritual brow. 
Thy silken hair drooped gracefully away ; 
Thine eye, dim-shaded with a tear, fell low 
To that sweet face, upturned from where it lay 
On thy soft, yearning bosom ; thine, above, 
Seraphic in the beauty of its love. 
Shedding a faint and sad, but burning ray, 
On that beloved heart, whose faith had been 
Thy love-star, in a world of perfidy and sin. 

The brotherhood were round Thee, mute with thought ; 
Prophetic shadows dimmed each holy eye, 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 137 

While musing on the deed thy hands had wrought, 

To teach them love and love's humility. 

To him, Thou knelt — the traitor ! washed his feet, 

Girded like menial, while he sat at meat ! 

Oh, black of heart ! Heard he thy quivering sigh ? 

" One shall betray me ! one, and he a brother ! " 

Saw he how each eye turned reproachful on another ? 

The head that had reposed upon thy breast 

In sweet abandonment and joyful love, 

With startled eye was lifted from its rest, 

Like the wild waking of a brooding dove ; 

The clinging arm withdrawn, the adoring smile 

Changed to a mute solicitude meanwhile ; 

" Lord, is it I ?" How grateful turned, above, 

Thy radiant eye, when that wild question broke 

From lips whose slightest word thine ardent love awoke ! 

What tones are those that thrill upon the air 
Like the wind-stricken chord of some lone lyrel 
It is the fitful melody of prayer I 
Now painfully subdued, now floating higher 
In fervent faith and full commingling love. 
Saviour ! 't is thy deep supplications move 
Thus on the " white wing" of unblent desire 
For their protection, lest the snare fall nigh. 
When thy untangled feet could not be hovering by. 

While yet the moonlit air trembled, and hung 

Gathered in quivering waves around thy lips. 

Sweet and entrancing music softly rung, 

AVhere, 'mid balconied flowers, the dew soft drips — 

A hymn, a holy hymn of deep devotion. 

Where thy soft voice rose trembling with emotion. 

Angels might drop their harps, and hush their lips, 

And seraphs pause upon the outspread wing ' 

For why should not they pause to hear the Master sing ! 

That hymn ! what was it? joy, and praise, and love, 
Poured from fond, gushing hearts in streams of faith? 
Or, a low mournful plaint, like some lone dove 
Lading with melody its dying breath ? 
The traitor ! was he there 1 did his foul art 
Grate its discordant mockery on thy heart ? 
12* 



a§ POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Lord ! since thy mortal voice was hushed in death, 

Has that unwritten strain e'er ceased to float 

In every woodland breeze, in every dell-bom note t 

The sound grown still, the moonbeams stole away — 

And the young flowers closed up their starry eyes — 

Thou, with the eleven wandered forth to pray 

Where the green olives veiled the silvery skies — 

To Olivet's sweet garden in the vale. 

On thy grave cheek, so wasted and so pale, 

The tear-drops, oft rebuked, forbidden stray, 

Whilst, on the threshold pausing, thy sad eye 

Turns, with a farewell glance ; — thou goest forth to die ! 

1839. 



SONG. 

SoFTLV, love, softly sleep ; 
I will bid the roses keep 

Vigils o'er thy head ; 
Winds shall breathe with murmurs low. 
Softly shall the wild brooks flow 

Round thy grassy bed. 

Sweetly, love, sweetly rest. 
With the flowers upon thy breast, 

Drooping in repose ; 
In thy wavy, nut-brown hair, 
I will braid with tender care, 

Violet and rose. 

Gently, love, gently dream — 
Let the music of the stream 

Pass into thy soul ; 
Let me glide around thy heart — 
Mine be there the hallowed part 

Thy visions to control. 

Holy, love, holy be 

All thy thoughts and dreams of me ; 

Let them be of love. 
I would seem unto thy sight 
Mantled in celestial light — 

An angel from above. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 139 

Softly, love, softly sleep ; 
I will bid the roses keep 

Vigils o'er thy head ; 
Winds shall breathe with murmurs low, 
Softly shall the wild brooks flow 

Round thy grassy bed. 



A SKETCH FROM LIFE. 

She grew in love. Around her infant home 
Life hung its summer hues, and very fair 

Was this wild earth to her. She learned to roam 
In artless radiance where the woodland air 

Showered trembling sweetness on the glancing streams, 

And stole its hue from sunset's golden beams. 

The wildwood squirrels knew her when she came, 
And crept about her for the ripe brown nut ; 

The birds half called her by her gentle name. 
Nor were the birds and butterflies forgot ; 

Never a woodland maiden grew so free 

With nature's holy ministers as she. 

She twined the orchis in her hazel hair. 

And stole the violets from the brookside dell ; 

The wilding rose was her peculiar care. 
Her dearest music was the fox-glove's bell, 

When the wild bee with his transparent wings 

Stirs the sweet air, and makes believe he sings. 

But changes come to all — and so they came 
To her ; and o'er her heart a spell was thrown. 

No longer there was love an idle name ; 

She learned to breathe it with a softened tone, 

And sometimes she would steal in tears away, 

And sit among her chosen flowers to pray. 

The glory of her youthful dream was changed. 

It was not darkened, but its colors grew 
Intense with heavenly light ; she was estranged 

From her wild joys, and though she still was true 
To her first loves of nature, she had found 
A stronger spell that mantled her around. 



140 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

It has been said that love doth bind the heart 
More strongly to the fading things of earth ; 

Not so with her ; — her spirit had no part 
With feelings which are but of mortal birth ; 

She loved for heaven, and heaven became her home, 

Long ere the angel beckoned her to come. 

She moved no longer careless through the wood, 
But studied long above a pale blue flower ; 

" Forget-me-Not," they call it, and allude 
By this sweet name to a mysterious power 

Bestowed on it by love, — a tale I knew 

In younger life — 't is beautiful and true. 

And was she happy ? asks some gentle one, 
In low soft accents, and with thoughtful eye ; 

Yes, dear, and more than happy ; though the sun 
Was softly clouded, and the deep blue sky 

Grew deeper that it was not flushed with light, 

Though all the clouds that shaded it were white. 

The brooks had a mysterious murmur to her ear, 
That seemed an echo from the deep-toned streams 

That glance in sunshine through a brighter sphere, 
And warble forth the music of rich dreams. 

All sounds had deepened, for her heart grew deep, 

And fountains waked that ne'er again might sleep. 

Believe you spirits toned like hers have long 
A dwelling on the tuneless shores of time 1 

Not long. The light-winged bird soon hushed her song. 
And floated up to a serener clime. 

She knew love's home could never be below — 

Why should she linger to endure its woe 1 

Home, like an uncaged bird she gladly sped, 

Home, with the sunbeams on her buoyant wing ; 
Home, where the beautiful have early fled. 

And where they make no discord when they sing ; 
Home hath she gone, and on the grassy spot 
Where she was laid, blooms 07ie forget-me-not. 
1840. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 141 

THE SPIRIT'S CHANGE. 

How beautiful are all the works of God , 
How beautiful his dealings with the heart ! 

There was a time when o'er the earth I trod 
With eyes unseeing, — when I dwelt apart 

From all life's mysteries, and knew no care ; 

Nor felt the strong necessity of prayer. 

There was a time when joy was in the light, 

When day with its glad beamings made my bliss ; 

When there was mournful beauty in the night, 
And in the grave a terrible abyss ; 

Such time hath passed, and things are changed to me — 

'T is well, my God ! for I am nearer thee. 

Morn bringeth mournful peace and solemn thought, 

It bringeth prophet-visions of the tomb ; 
Night-dreams fade out, but not the hues they wrought, 

The shadowy hues of an approaching doom ; 
Oh, they are beautiful, though wrought in tears ; 
For death no longer robes himself in fears. 

Ay, God hath dealt with me ; He hath gone down 

Into the silent slumbers of my heart. 
And made me feel my immortality, and thrown 

A spell around me which may ne'er depart ; 
Tides of immortal joy within me roll — 
Joy that subdues and sanctifies the soul. 

I move no longer with a careless love 

O'er the green earth, and 'mid the laughing flowew ; 
The deep affection I have placed above, 

Absorbs the lighter love of lighter powers ; 
With a wrapt heart, I go in silent dreams 
Among the flowers, and by the gushing streams. 

How long must I await the gentle call 

Which bids me to the presence of thy love ? 

Earth has her charms, but I can leave them all 
To dwell with Thee, eternally above ; 

How the worn dove will weary for its home ! 

Shall it be long, dear Father, ere I come 1 



142 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

LINES WRITTEN AT A WATERFALL. 

From the deep hollow of Thy generous hand, 

Thou hast poured forth a heritage to earth — 

A heritage of beauty and of power, 

Of glory and of majesty divine. 

This giant work is thine. Oh God ! and man 

May bow in humble worship at its feet ; 

Proud to gaze upward through its incense wreath, 

And dream he meets some loving glance from Thee. 

Variable there thy beautiful smile doth rest, 
A rainbow-promise of celestial peace. 
When o'er the mighty cataract of Time 
Our spirits shall have passed, and we glide on 
Through the bright, glorious shores of that blest land, 
Where we shall know nor tumult, nor repose, 
But a still, beautiful passage on the way 
Of wisdom and of love forever. 
1840. 



THE BAPTISM. 



She stood at the altar with heavenward eye, 

All hazy and soft with thought ; 
And her breath stole out in a tremulous sigh, 

With passionate feeling fraught. 
But her brow was calm as a bed of snow, 

Where the moonbeams softly rest ; 
And her raven hair fell wavy and low. 

Like a quivering shade on her breast. 

Her cheek was so downy, it might have lain 

On a rosebed through the night. 
Nor borrowed the hue of a fragrant stain, 

On its pure and shadowless white. 
But nought was there seen on the snowy cheek, 

Or the softly waving hair, 
Like the spirit, so earnest and sweetly meek. 

That rose from her eye in prayer. 

She was yielding her heart, in its shadeless truth, 
To the service and faith of Heaven ; 

In those sunniest hours of her spotless youth, 
Her love and her trust were given. 



i 



1840. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 143 

She knelt, all holy, and breathed her vow, 

While the priest from the altjur trod, 
With the dewy seal for her radiant brow, 
Of a covenant formed with God. 

O lovely as youth at the bridal seems, 

Where the plighted heart is given, 
A higher and holier beauty beams 

From the face of the bride of Heaven ! 
A spirit devoted to holy love, 

A child of the second birth, 
Whose faith and affections are anchored above, 

Is the loveliest thing on earth ! 

But the silent vow in the dell untrod. 

And the bedside prayer may be 
As sweet a pledge, in the sight of God, 

Of faith and purity, 
As the minster-vow at some ancient shrine, 

Confirmed from the sacred bowl ; 
Our Father looks not on the outward sign, 

But into the secret soul. 



THE KINGDOM ABOVE. 

How chilling and sad is the fearful gloom 
Of the coffin and shroud, of the pall and tomb ! 
How cold is the eye, when the light of love 
Hath fled to its fount in the kingdom above ! 

And the relict heart, with its pulseless grief, — 
How silent it lies, like a fallen leaf! 
All the bright visions it tenderly wove 
Are faded and fled to the kingdom above. 

But, soft as the ray of the vernal sun. 
The hallowing hope of heaven beams on ; 
And the gentle voice of the heavenly Dove 
Is calling our hearts to the kingdom above. 

No longer the shroud and the pall wear gloom ; 
They are travelling robes to a fairer home ; 
Where hearts that were linked by an earthly love 
Will meet to inherit a kingdom above. 



1840. 



lAft POETICAL SELECTIONS. 



THE VOICE OF THE DYING. 

" My dreams in death have other moulds: 
Forms beautiful and bright 
Are with me." 

Oh, it is sweet to die ! 
They told me death was stern, and sad, and cold ; 
They said there was an anguish in his hold, — 

That o'er the closing eye 
He threw terrific images and forms, — 
Grim phantoms from a far-off world of storms ! 

It is not so, my friends ! 
There is no chillness in the touch of death : 
To the pale, drooping rose, the south's warm breath 

Relief less welcome lends. 
Than the soft, hallowing spell around me thrown 
By death's own gentle hand, and low, sweet tone. 

Not the bright dew, that lies 
In the rich urn of some half-opened rose, 
Rises more gently from its soft repose 

To the all-glorious skies. 
Than my long-wasted spirit from its shrine 
Passes on death's white wings to rest divine. 

And spirit-forms are here ; 
No fearful spectres from the ghastly land. 
But pure and beautiful, — a radiant band 

From the celestial sphere. 
They stand around me — hold my aching head — 
Oh, bright ye are, sweet phantoms of the dead ! 

Yes, sweet it is to die ! 
When the long-burdened spirit is worn down, 
When the brow wearies of earth's thorny crown, 

How beautiful to lie 
On the soft bosom of the angel, Death, 
And let pain sigh away its last faint breath ! 

Then fear it not, my friends ! 
Nor think it cold, and stern, and fraught with dread ; 
Dream sweeter visions of the free, blest dead ! 

For, see ye not, death blends 
The hallowed spirit with a life all pure, 
With fadeless love, and joys forever sure ! 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 145 

Fear not the silent tomb I 
Silent it is, yet peaceful and serene ; 
No loneliness is there when God is seen \ 

And, dear ones, there is room 
For Him who loves us, even in the grave : 
Distrust Him not — He hath the will to save. 



' THE MOUNTAIN GIRL. 

I KNOW a dim and still retreat, 
Where woodland blue-birds daily meet ; 
And where the lark, for noonday rest, 
Comes filled with music from her nest. 
In a wide mountain gorge it lies. 
Away from human hearts and eyes ; 
There echo brings her wild, deep song, 
And sings it sweetly all day long. 
Repeating, of the cuckoo's lay, 
Some snatches in her own wild way, 
And stealing, from the dancing rill, 
A music more bewildering still, 
Or breathing, to the wind's low sigh, 
A dreamy, spirit-like reply. 

The solemn trees grow wildly there, 
And toss their branches in the air ; 
Adown the ledge of gray old stone. 
With velvet moss and flowers o'ergrown, 
The water trickles with a dim, 
Faint music like a fairy's hymn. 
The tall, red columbines o'erlook 
The sunny dimples of the brook, 
And welcome from tlie hollow tree 
The entrance of the vagrant bee. 
The fervent sunbeams faintly dare 
To smile upon the moss-cups there ; 
And scarce the blue-bells, by the stream, 
Will meet the moon's delirious beam ; 
So soft, so holy, so serene, 
Is all that shadowy, wild ravine. 
13 



146 . POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

There stealeth, at the early morn. 

The rabbit and the timid fawn ; 

There skips the Uttle squirrel by, 

With tail erect, and glistening eye ; 

There glanceth, too, — the rill toward, — 

A human foot across the sward ; 

A little foot that ever spares 

The flower that springeth unawares ; 

That danceth gayly with the brook, 

Or resteth in the violet nook ; 

That chaseth, through the mountain rye, 

The beetle and the butterfly, 

Then, finding nothing else to do, 

Tosses aside its old torn shoe, 

And, through the passage of a dream. 

Plays with the pebbles in the stream. 

A dainty creature, fair and wild. 

Is that sweet vision of a child ! 

With sunbeams in her eyes and heart, 

And beauty yet unwed to art ; 

With music in her gushing voice, 

And love and truth in every choice. 

She seems like some gay humming-bird, 

With the new gift of music stirred. 

Repaying to the flowers in song 

The sweets they dropped upon its tongue. 

Years pass, and yet the quiet scene 
Is just as shadowy and serene ; 
No change has marred the violet nook, 
Nor turned aside the murmuring brook ; 
The birds have not forgot their haunts, 
Nor the wild bee its simple wants ; 
There come they still to pass away 
The long, sweet, golden summer day ; 
And there, all beautiful as light. 
Droop the soft shadows of the night. 
Where is the child, the pretty child, 
So gay of heart, so sweetly wild ? 
Where treadeth now that little foot ? 
Where flits it in its light pursuit ? 
Where dwell the merry laugh and shout 
That once were ringing all about ? 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 147 

Let us go trace the mountain rill 
Down through the crevice of the hill. 
Here winds it gently now aside 
With something of a timid pride, 
Seeking within the dim retreat 
A refuge from the summer heat : 
Like some small silver ciiain it twines 
Among the trees and drooping vines, 
And kisses, in its cool, soft flow, 
The flowers that on its borders grow. 

She wanders there, the mountain girl, 

With sunny cheek and floating curl ; 

Taller and quieter than when 

We saw her flitting through the glen ; 

And wearing in her soft, dark eyes, 

A wealth of human mysteries. 

Some feelings have been born within, 

Earthly, yet unallied to sin ; 

The voice of human love hath spoken, 

And childhood's spell at last is broken. 

Her heart is satisfied no more 

With what it dearly loved before ; 

Nor bird, nor bee, nor woodland stream. 

To her wrapt spirit longer seem, 

In such a world of love as this, 

Sufficient ministers of bliss. 

Oh Time, no need of thine so strange 
As Love's mysterious, sudden change. 
When, stealing from all else apart, 
It clusters round one human heart ! 
Here dwells its music, and its light, 
Nor grows the outward world less bright, 
That it hath centred in one shrine, 
All it hath recognized divine. 
That child to womanhood hath grown — 
Life's picture wears a deeper tone — 
The golden hues that joy inwove, 
Assume the varying shades of love. 

Years pass again. The mountain stream 
Still sings its wild, unconscious dream ; 
No change hath visited the spot 
Where stood of old the rustic cot. 



148 POETICAL SELECTIONS, 

But o'er its roof the ivy creeps, 
And on its walls the lizard sleeps ; 
The spider o'er the latch hath spun 
A web to whiten in the sun ; 
The roses bloom, and fade away, 
With none to weep for their decay. 
The very birds perceive the change, 
And find the solitude too strange. 
No longer 'mid the sweet-briar leaves 
The swallow builds beneath the eaves. 
But, hurrying from the mountain glen, 
Finds peace among the haunts of men. 

The mountain girl — a girl no more, 
Sits down beside that cottage door ; 
How changed ! the very house has less 
Of silent, saddening mournfulness. 
In her deep, melancholy eye, 
Life's brilliant hues no longer lie ; 
And love itself, its sweetest light, 
Has left behind a starless night. 
A night 1 Ah no ! 'T is early davm — 
The long, dark, hopeless hours are gone ; 
And Faith, the day-spring from on high, 
Is beaming through her heavenward eye. 
Aged and widowed, poor and lone, 
She sits upon the threshold stone. 
Where years before, in childish play, 
She laughed the long, bright hours away. 

What changes mark the course of grief ! - 
That bud is now a yellow leaf. 
Shivering a moment in the blast, 
To fall and waste away at last. 
Yet some few hours of sunshine warm 
The faded wreck of many a storm ; 
Some few and transient smiles of hope 
Enrich life's sere and downward slope. 
She is once more at home, where roved 
Her girlish steps when first she loved ; 
And here, at last, her way-worn feet 
May linger in their old retreat. 
A.nd in the shadow of the vine, 
She planted for a Sabbath shrine, 



1841. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 149 

She shall lie down to that sweet sleep 
So welcome to the eyes that weep ; 
While the low wind and murmuring wave 
Sing constant requiems round her grave. 



THE "WOOD-PATH. 

A PATH there is, a sweet wild path, that steals through woodland 

bowers. 
And all along its verdant sides spring up soft smiling flowers ; 
0, know ye where that pleasant path hath hid its wealth of shade, 
Beneath what tall o'erhanging trees, within what far-off glade ? 

Come, we will go and trace its way within this fragrant woods^ 
Where solitude hath built a shrine for her religious moods ; 
How tremblingly the golden light drops through the parted boughs ! 
The very light of all most sweet, to consecrate our vows. 

Come, lead thy thoughts, nor let them rove on life's forbidden things ; 
There 's music here beneath the leaves, — the fluttering of bright 

wings ; 
There 's beauty here, — the verdant gleams of softly-filtered light, 
And flowers, and moss, and tufted grass, and many a small, new 

sight. 
There 's silence here, — yet nature speaks in every soft low breath 
That steals, a viewless spirit, by, like sweet relieving death ; 
And in the murmur of the waves that comes from far-off brooks, 
And in the faint, mysterious sighs of lone and shadowy nooks. 

The rose-brier throws its slender boughs in arches by the way. 
And golden rods, with starry flowers, yield many a cheerful ray ; 
But something sweeter, holier far, broods in the solemn air : 
'Tis all unseen, yet deeply felt, — the impulse of high prayer. 

We cannot tread with careless hearts beneath green, breathing trees ; 
There's something which forbids our mirth in every murmuring 

breeze : 
Insensibly our spirits yield to spells we cannot see. 
And, sanctified by every sound, we bend the prayerful knee. 

Far to a lone, soft-gliding brook this grassy pathway leads : 
And even this, with winning tone, within the spirit pleads ; 
We can but kneel upon its brink, and bathe the uplifted brow. 
And breathe, in low and fervent tones, some penitential vow. 
13* 



150 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

O, hallowed by a thousand thoughts is this wild, woodland path ; 
A thousand dear memorials its very sunshine hath ; 
And every shadow that around its mossy borders falls, 
Some tender look, or soft sweet smile, or thrilling tone recalls. 
1841. 



THE RECALL. 



" Is all the counsel that we two have shared, 

the hours that we have spent, 

When we have chid the hasty-footed time, 
For parting us, — O, and is all forgot? " 

Midsummer's Night Dream. 

Hast thou forgotten that old drooping elm, 

Whose wavy boughs hung o'er a clear, bright spring? 

Whose shade through childhood's hours we made our realm. 
And peopled it with every fairy thing 1 

And how the wind's low, melancholy sigh 
Crept tremulously by 1 

How the bright leaves would shower upon our heads 
Night's jewelled gifts unto their parent tree? 

And the blue violets, from their mossy beds. 
Would lift their dewy eyes to smile on thee, 

While the soft murmurs of the crystal spring 
In their dark bells would ring ? 

Hast thou forgotten all 1 The sweet wild-rose 
We borrowed from the verdant brookside glen. 

And with our little hands and garden hoes. 
Planted it firmly in the earth again ? 

It has grown tall, and twines around the door — 
Would thou wert here once more ! 

O many a wreath of blossoms has it borne. 

Since from thy childhood's home thy steps were turned, 
And many a dewy jewel hath it worn. 

And many a perfume in its heart inumed : 
Would that thou, brother, in life's noonday hour, 
Wert pure as this sweet flower ! 

And dost thou not remember the green tomb. 

Where oft we wandered of a summer eve ? 
Our mother slept beneath its daisied bloom, 

And there we lingered long to pray and grieve : 
O brother, since, it oft has been my prayer. 
Would Ikon wert sleeping there ! 



1841. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 151, 

would thou wert, indeed, ere sin had stained 
Thy youthful being with its blighting touch ! 

Far less my faithful love had thus been pained, 

Though I should then have sorrowed for thee much ; 

But thus to see thee ! O, thou canst not know 
The anguish of my woe ! 

By all the precious memories of the past, 

By the sweet innocence of childhood's plays, 

By the deep sorrow o'er my being cast. 
By all the promise of thine earlier days. 

By every tie that links thee to thy home, 
I conjure thee to come ! 

brother, once more back to thy young haunts. 
Amid our streams, and founts, and favorite flowers, 

Where birds are flitting, and bright waters glance 
With the same beauty as in happier hours, 

1 feel thou wilt, ere thou shalt hence depart. 

Regain thy " young lamb's heart." 

Then come, thou erring one, yet still beloved ! 

Come to the sister who so long hath yearned 
To have her tender faithfulness thus proved ; 

To weep above the wanderer, home returned, 
And lead him gently back to God and heaven, 
A penitent forgiven. 



DEVOTIONAL LOVE. 

A SOLEMN joy, and deep. 
Most Holy Spirit, is my love of thee ! 
Whether it haunt me in ray hours of sleep. 
Or like a passion o'er my spirit sweep, 

'T is a full heaven to me ! 

It is no restless thing. 
Forever trembling with a fear of change ; 
It dwells within my being like a spring 
Of pure, sweet waters, which around it fling 

Light ever rich and strange. 

In the still hour of night. 
When the soul flutters with its wild, proud thought, 



152 POETICAL SELECTIONS, 

How like a stream of clear and solemn light 
It throws around it hues divinely bright, 
With joy and peace inwrought. 

When warnings sad and low, 
Like the soft murmurs of a buried stream, 
Through the deep shadows of the spirit go. 
Thy love breathes sweet assurances, that throw 

" Joy through my troubled dream." 

The world has many a chill 
To breathe upon a young and timid heart ; 
And earthly loves grow dim, and scarce fulfil 
The promise of their dawn ; but faithful still, 

And ever kind Thou art ! 

Let me still love and trust, 
O thou most gracious and forever true ! 
Love thee and cling to thee my spirit must. 
Till it but throw aside its weary dust, 

To live and love anew. 
1841. 



TO A STAR. 



Sweet island in a hollow sea, 

What spirits walk thy shore ? 
What close embosomed mystery 
Gives soul and beauty unto thee. 

Ne'er seen and felt before 1 
What secrets in thy being live, 

Never to mortals known 1 
What bright revealments canst thou give 

Of human being gone 1 

O tell us, floating gem of even, 

Where do thy wanderings lead^ 
Say, is to thee the mission given 
To walk the unseen shores of heaven, 

And there thine urns to feed 
With the pure light that angel wings 

Shed on the dreamy air. 
And bathe thy rays in those soft springs 

That gush forever there ? 



1 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 153 

Art thou a world, thou fairy light, 

Slow moving through the sky? 
A world so radiantly dight, 
That heaven can scarcely be more bright 

Unto an angel's eye ? 
Art thou a loorld ? What spirits walk 

Amid thy beauteous flowers 1 
In what sweet language do they talk ? 

Is it as soft as ours 1 

O tell us, do they talk of love, 

And have they gentle hearts'? 
Do they forever faithful prove 
To souls with which they 're interwove, — 

Souls to which love imparts 
So pure a glow, so full of bliss, 

That heaven hath naught more sweet? 
O, hast thou aught for us like this, 

Within thy bowers to meet 1 

Does sin — answer us, thou star ! — 

Does sin thy sons o'ershade 1 
Are they as earthly beings are 1 
Do fearful crimes and passions mar 

All mortals God has made? 
Speak, burning world ! hast thou been trod 

By footsteps all divine ? 
And offered to the Son of God 

A mountain bed and shrine 1 

To shade his eyes, with woe grown dim, 

Hast reared the jagged thorn ? 
Or furnished forth a cross for Him, 
And tortured every quivering limb. 

And soothed his pains with scorn? 
O tell us, tell us, has his blood 

Hallowed thy radiant flowers ? 
His prayers, outpoured in solitude, 

Made consecrate thy bowers ? 

No answer from thy light we wring, 

No token thence we wile ; 
Idle is all our questioning : 
Enough for us our faith to bring, 

And lay it in thy smile ; 



154 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Enough to gaze upon thee there, 
In the soft blue of even ; 

For while we gaze, a trustful prayer 
Bears up our hearts to Heaven. 
1841. 



THOU'RT LIKE THY MOTHER, CHILD. 

Thou 'rt like thy mother, fair and gentle child ; 

Her beauty is revealed upon thy cheek : 
Thine eye is hers ; it is as soft and mild. 

And at the touch of grief as sadly meek ; 
Ay, thou 'rt like her, child. 

The same soft, curly tresses shade thy brow, 
And on thy lips rests the same merry smile ; 

-As glad a laugh, as arch a glance hast thou, 

A voice as musical to soothe or wile ; 

Thou 'rt very like her, child. 

The blush will steal as freely and as bright 
To thy fair cheek, at coarse or hasty words, 

And gentle tones will yield as sweet delight 
To her or thy heart as the songs of birds ; 
Indeed, thou 'rt like her, child. 

But more in spirit than in looks, my child ; 

Thou hast her gentleness, her deep, true love, 
Her tender sadness, mournful and yet mild, 

The very spirit of a turtle dove : 

I 'm glad thou 'rt like her, child. 

Thou hast the promise of her eloquence. 
Her ardent temper, gentle and yet warm. 

Her love of beauty, and exquisite sense 
Or hidden intellect in every form ; 
Thou art all like her, child. 

When pain and wretchedness are met by thee, 
Thou art as eager to relieve and bless ; 

And not a wounded floweret canst thou see, 
But thou wilt stoop to it with soft caress ; 
In this thou 'rt like her, child. 



1841. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 155 

Thou hast my deep and never-faltering love, 

My sleepless and forever trembling care ; 
I ask for thee rich blessings from above, 

And plead thy v^ants in many a fer\'ent prayer : 
Here art thou like her, child. 

And wilt thou ever be, as she has been, 

Faithful and tender to my trustful love ■? 
And wilt thou turn aside from pride and sin. 

And lift thy spirit undefiled above? 
Be like her here, my child ! 



LOVE AT THE GRAVE. 

Dust ! dust ! why wildly clings 

My heart to thee ? The things 
Of earth should not be made our gods : 
We lay them all beneath the valley-clods. 

The soul, alone, hath wings. 

Thine eye, that oft hath gazed 

Fondly on me, is glazed 
And cold ; no love beams longer there ; 
And mould is creeping o'er thy golden hair ; 

But thou, thou, art raised ! 

Why should I vainly weep. 

Where the green mosses creep 
Above the ruins of a beauteous shrine? 
The sweet divinity I dared call mine 

Does not beneath them sleep. 

Why do I haunt this spot, 

Where, by the world forgot. 
Ashes are sleeping, whence the fire and light 
Long since have fled, and left but dust and blight 

Beneath the flowery plot? 

Why on this fresh, bright sod. 

Where foot hath never trod, — 
Save it be angel-footsteps, tending flowers, — 
Have I so humbly knelt, through long, sad hours. 

And wildly called on God ? 



156 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

O for a faith more sure, 
O for a hope more pure, 

To lift my spirit-longings unto heaven ! 

For to the soul on earth, no love is given, 
Unsullied to endure. 

Love's home is not below ; 

It journeyeth with woe, 
But bids it, at the grave, a last farewell : 
In heaven, alone, it finds a place to dwell 

Untroubled by a foe. 

O Father, lift mine eyes 
To thy bright, glorious skies, 
Where nothing fades, nor passes to decay : 
Woo me by smiles of love, gently away 
To thy pure Paradise. 
1841. 



THE WOODLAND RETREAT. 

Come, gentle love, to the shady wood, 

While the noon hours pass away ; 
Our spirits will here be bright and good 

Through the glare of the summer day. 
We will hunt the mosses and sedgy knolls, 

For the tiniest buds and flowers. 
And sweetly and purely we '11 blend our souls 

Through the languor of dreamy hours. 

The bee is here with his mellow hum, 

A wild and a drowsy sound ; 
He has muffled his head in a foxglove thumb, 

And weighed himself to the ground. 
And all about in the swinging bells 

The murmurs are lurking low. 
Like the solemn softness of fairy knells, 

A blending of joy and woe. 

The birds are flitting fi-om tree to tree, 
The sunbeams from flower to flower : 

O where can the spirit of sorrow be 
In so tranquil and sweet an hour? 



1841. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 157 

No shadows are here but the softened fall 

Of the sunshine through the leaves : 
'Tis a holy haunt, so quiet all, 

To a bosom that inly grieves. 

The music that hovers unseen above 

In the boughs of the waving trees, 
Like the gentle voice of a friend we lOve, 

Subdues us by calm degrees. 
The presence of love is with us here 

In the music and softened light ; 
In all that is bright, and sweet, and clear, 

Lies the spell of its glorious might. 

In the voice of the wild-bird that wanders by, 

There 's a message from God to all ; 
For he talks to his children beneath the sky 

Through oracles weak and small. 
And the daisy that lifteth its gentle head 

From the grassy bed of its birth. 
Wears the same sweet smile that our God hath spread 

Abroad o'er the glorious earth. 

Then come, my love, to the shady wood ; 

It is good to worship apart 
From the crowded world, and in solemn mood 

Commune with an humbled heart. 
The spirit is purer and better far, 

For its moments of silent prayer ; 
Its light grows clearer, like some dim star 

When seen through the midnight air. 



STANZAS ON THE DEATH OF MRS. J. H. SCOTT. 

" Sister, my soul's loved sister, 
I have bidden thee farewell !" 

Mrs. Scott. 

All things do call for thee ! 
I hear low breathings 'mid the bright spring-roses, 
And tolling murmurs from the harebells blue ; 
And where the violet on the turf reposes. 
Filling its urn-cup with the sparkling dew, 
A soft lament, a wild and sweet deploring 
14 



158 POETICAL SELECTIONS, 

Calls for thy presence here amid the flowers, — 
The early flowers, o'er which thy heart, adoring, 
Poured forth its gladness in thy brighter hours — * 
All these do call for thee ! 

And more than these — ay, more ! 
Hearts that were linked to thine by strong affection, 
Thy child's young voice in many a mournful cry. 
They who have named thee, by the soul's election, 
The brightest star that shone along our sky — 
These call for thee in tones of thrilling sadness. 
They woo thee back by many a burning tear — 
Oh ! 'midst the music of thy heart's deep gladness, 
Canst thou in heaven their wild complainings hear, 

Thou, who art past all grief? 

Thou wert a priestess here ; 
In nature's temple, by her flower-wreathed altar. 
Long hast thou ministered with gifts divine ; 
Thy heart hath been thy prayer-book and thy psalter. 
And every lone bright spot a sacred shrine. 
Thy hymns — Oh were tliey not, 'mid glen and mountain, 
Called from thy heart by some resistless power 1 
Blending the music of the wild-wood fountain 
With the pure sweetness of the summer flower? 

Were they not, dearest friend ? 

Deep sank their fervent tones — 
Deep in our heart of hearts their praise descended. 
And stirred up burning thoughts and holy love ; 
For in their rich, impassioned strains were blended 
A zeal and beauty sent thee from above. 
No more to us shall those sweet strains be chanted — 
Hushed is thy voice beside life's flowing stream — 
Thou, who so long for clearer waters panted. 
Hast found at last the beauty of thy dream — 

The bright, eternal Fount ? 

* Her love of flowers was no unreal sentiment. In one of her letters she 
promised to send me a poem for every species of rare seed, or slip of plant I 
could find means to forward to her. Among the beautiful varieties of shrubs, 
vines, and flowers, with which her yard was literally filled, she showed me 
some wild clematis vines she had raised from seed I had gathered for her on 
the banks of Bow-Brook. " I do so love the sweet flowers," she said, " I am 
a perfect child about them." 



1843. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 159 

We would not call thee thence — 
We would not, bright one, though a dimness lieth 
Along those pathways where thy smile hath shone — 
For thou art now where beauty never dieth, 
And shadows on the heart are never strown. 
Not all of thee, sweet friend, from earth hath perished, 
Our hearts still keep thee, still they love thee well — 
There are thy songs and gentle teachings cherished, 
There shall the memory of thy goodness dwell — 

For good thou wert, and true ! 



1842. 



A PRAYER AT NIGHT. 

Those lone, bright spheres ! How beautiful their light 

In the wide solitude of space ! How far 
O'er reefy shore, and bold Norwegian height, 
And tropic desert, will one small, faint star 

Its cheering radiance throw ! 

And they who toil below — 
The weary voyager on the trackless sea, 
The pilgrim thrown beneath the wayside tree, 

O'erworn with care and pain ; 
O shall not these take heart of grace again, 
And struggle on through all the awful night, 

Cheered by that small, sweet light ? 

Grant me, O God, a high, soft star to be ! 

Calm, still, and bright, to trace my way in heaven,' 
And shed my light o'er life's tempestuous sea. 

Where human hearts, like fragile barks, are driven 

'Mid rocks and hidden shoals. 

A soul 'mid glorious souls — 
A small, pure star within the glittering band 
That high above the clouds, undimmed and grand. 

In placid beauty rolls. 
To herald on the weary to the land 
Where all is rest and peace ; to guide the way 

To heaven's unclouded day ! 



160 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 



FILIAL LOVE. 



" Here is a wild stream moaning through the grass — 
Let us sit down, dear Ada, for the beams 
Of the rich noontide have o'erwearied thee ; 
Throw back thy sunny curls, that the soft breeze 
May kiss thy blushing cheeks, — those pure young cheeks 
Where feehng plays at every touch of thought. 
And the young rose-bud sees a rival hue 
More fleeting than its own. How very like 
Thy mother art thou, Ada, when she walked 
This same wild path with me long years ago !" 

"0, am 1 like her, father ? I am glad. 
For she was kind and tender, and I know 
How much the wretched loved her, for they come 
Even now around her tomb, and wreathe the urn 
With hedgerow flowers ; and, when I pass their doors, 
Exclaim, ' God bless thee for thy mother's sake !' 
Now while we rest us here, and the long boughs 
Of the wild locust shade us from the sun, 
I pray thee, father, tell me of those days 
When life was new to her, and how she learned 
Those tender ministries of good, which made 
Her name a passport to the coldest heart, 
And all her life one soft, still-gliding stream 
Of truth and beauty, that I, too, may learn 
To make my being felt among the poor." 

" Her history is one that suits this quiet spot, 
For it is simple as the murmuring song 
Of this wild rill. I loved her, Ada, when 
I was a boy, and oft would woo her forth 
Among these old, ancestral trees, to read 
Sweet lays to me, while I would cast my line 
Along the stream. The spotted trout would come, 
Unscared by the low sweetness of her tones. 
And when the brilliant prey was mine, the tear 
Would gather quickly in her dark blue eye. 
Yet she would smile, scarce knowing which to choose, 
My pleasure, or the life of the poor fish ; 
No creature crossed her path that was not blest 
By some kind word or gentle providence. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 161 

The worm, that ventured forth to meet the beams 

Of the mild sun, was spared by her young foot 

Even in its gayest sport ; and when, at dawn, 

Her wakeful spirit led her to the woods, 

And 'mid the thickets she espied the snare 

In which the unwary rabbit had been caught, 

With active zeal her little hand would break 

The cord, and set the prisoner free ; nor dare 

The baffled gamester cast an angry glance 

On her bright, smiling, love-illumined face. 

In winter, at any early hour, the birds 

Would call her from her rest, for they had learned 

To wait on her for food, nor wait in vain.* 

Such, gentle daughter, was thy mother then. 

In her unfolding youth ; and as she grew 

In grace and knowledge, she enlarged the sphere 

Of her benevolence, till it embraced 

All living things ; and this sad world 

Seemed to her angel heart a field for toil 

In binding up the broken reed, and giving strength 

To those who faltered by the way. To me, — 

O Ada, thy young heart can little guess 

The joy her presence gave. When I was sad, 

No voice so sweet as hers, no eye so soft ; 

And when the heavy hand of pain o'ercame 

The efforts of my mind, her gentle touch 

And soft religious words were more than health 

To my adoring heart. Her spiritual light 

Was clearer than mine own, and when I erred, 

Without one mild reproach, she led me back 

By her own beautiful thoughts to the pure way 

Of piety and love. — Ada, she died ! 

And but for thee, I should have followed her. 

But when thine infant eye looked pleadingly 

To mine, and no soft, tender voice was left 

To hush thy feeble wail, I wrapt the shroud 

Of this world closer round me, and remained — 

For thee ! — I have been well repaid ; 

* I have known the jays in winter, soon after sunrise, to perch upon the 
trees which surround the house from which they were accustomed to receive 
daily food, and call loudly and impatiently for the appearance of those who 
kindly ministered to their wants. 
14* 



162 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

To see thy features day by day assume 

The look thy mother's wore, — to hear her voice 

In the clear cadences of thy gay laugh, 

And, more than all, to trace the tender moods 

Of her sweet soul in thine ; — O, Ada dear, 

I thought all joy was buried in the grave 

With her who gave thee birth, but this has been 

A fountain of unceasing love and hope, 

A wellspring in the desert of this world 

Where I have drank and lived !" 

"O let me wipe 
The tears from thy too mournful eyes, and make 
Thee happy, dearest father, by my love. 
I will repay thee by the earnest truth 
Of a confiding heart ; by kindly deeds 
To those who mourn ; by patient love and hope, 
For those who go astray from the high path 
Of duty ; by a gentle watch o'er thee 
When thou art sick and weary ; and by still 
And secret chastening of my own wild heart 
In the dear presence of my God. Thine eye 
Smiles on me while I promise — 'tis enough — - 
I know the shade of her who loves us, droops 
Around us in this holy hour, and seals 
My vow, and bears it up to heaven." 
1842. 



MY FATHER. 



I SEE him coming up the hill. 

With tottering step and slow ; 
Alas ! his nerves no longer thrill 

With youth's exciting glow ; 
And look ! he leans upon his cane, 
As though the effort gave him pain. 

The dear old man ! How age hath dimmed 

The lustre of his eye ; 
But nobly he the tide h|th stemmed, 

And now is ripe to die ; 
For wrong and sorrow have not bowed 
A spirit that was never proud. 



1842. 



POEIICAL SELECTIONS. 

His locks, once dark, are silvery gray, 
And scattered o'er his brow ; 

His cheeks, where sunshine used to play, 
Are worn and furrowed now ; 

And when he turns to me to speak, 

His tones come trenaulous and weak. 

But still the same kind words of love 

Address his daughter's ear ; 
His heart, as simple as a dove, 

Is full of kindly cheer ; 
And when he laughs, it does me good 
To see his free and merry mood. 

Dear father ! May I ever prove 

A gentle child to thee. 
And pay thee back the faithful love 

That thou hast showered on me ; 
For it would break my heart to know 
I e'er had caused thee shame or woe. 

And if around thy grave some day 
With saddened heart I stroll, 

God grant I may not turn away 
With shame upon my soul ; 

But looking up to heaven, may feel 

From thee I 've nothing to conceal. 



163 



SOCIAL DESIRES. 

I LOVE not on a little flower to look, 

Casting its shadow on the singing brook, 

If from its soft blue eye I may not turn 

To eyes where soul breathes out, as from an urn. 

I love not in some wild and lonely shade, 
To watch the dashing of a clear cascade. 
If at my side, no spirit, clad in white, 
Sing a low echo to my deep delight. 

I love not in some mossy nook of green. 
Where sweet wild roses weave a fragrant screen, 
To bend my knee and lift my simple prayer. 
Unless a heart to pray for, meet me there. 



164 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

I love not even the poet's full-souled words, 
Sweeter and purer than the songs of birds, 
If no true kindred heart beat time to mine, 
And echo back the music of each line. 

I love all holy things that God has made, 
But none, unshared, of sunshine or of shade ; 
And from the wreath of joy my faith hath wove, 
T would pluck out a rose for each I love. 
1842. 



THE MISSION OF CHRIST. 

Oh, yes ! there is joy in sincerely believing, 

No heart that is faithless can dream of, or know ; 
There is strength in the thought that our souls are receiving 

Such wealth as a Father alone can bestow. 
Then away with the dogma that sin is eternal ! 

It dims the bright glow of Immanuel's name ; 
For it was not to build up a kingdom infernal 

That Jesus, the Friend of the sorrowful, came. 

It was not to lay in the path of the blinded 

High walls over which they must stumble and fall. 
That He came, all sublime and serene, and high-minded, 

And laid down his life — a redemption for all ! 
It was not to slaughter, in anger and blindness. 

The wandering lambs that were dying of cold. 
That he lifted them up to his bosom in kindness. 

And brought them all home to their rest in the fold. 

He is good, — and the heart that serenely reposes 

And lays down its burthens to rest in his love. 
Will find that the door of salvation ne'er closes 

So long as one sinner continues to rove. 
He loves the young lambs, though afar they are straying, 

He seeks out the weary with tender concern ; 
Oh hear his soft voice in the wilderness praying, 

" To the arms of your Saviour, poor lost ones, return ! " 
1843. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 165 



REVERIES. 



They come ! the visions of the Past arise, 

A crowd of mingling shadows bright and fair ! 
There stands the bride with the resplendent eyes — 

There sits the maiden with the golden hair ! 

Vainly, O vainly do I strive to tear 
My soul away from these bewildering dreams ; 

They crowd with glory all the twilight air, — 
I see their faces mirrored in the streams. 
And meet their gentle smiles in every star that beams ! 

Now float the orange wreath and bridal veil 

Around a brow with youthful beauty bright ; 
And now that brow, serenely fair and pale, 

Lies in the shadow of eternal night. 

A rounded arm, — a hand of dazzling white, — 
A laughing eye of deep and changeful blue — 

These come, like gleams of sunshine, to ray sight, 
In every winning guise and radiant hue. 
The visions of the Loved, the Beautiful, the True! 

I hear a laugh, like music in the wood ; 

A wild clear gush of righ and happy thought ; 
It comes from one whose heart was kind and good, 

With every gentle charity inwrought. 

No drooping soul her sympathy e'er sought 
That she did bless not with a pitying tear ; 

And even Despair in her bright presence caught 
Some gleam of faith his gloomy brow to cheer. 
Some faint, yet precious, hope that Mercy might be near. 

Before me rise soft glades of verdant grass, 

And dewy glens, o'ercanopied with vines ; 
Bright murmuring streams and founts before me pass. 

With flower-wreathed altars, and lone woodland shrines. 

My soul to Memory every power resigns, 
And leaves me wandering through her magic halls ; 

Now by some olden haunt my heart reclines, 
Now turns aside where some wild streamlet falls, 
Or in the graveyard stands, lifting its shadowy palls ! 

'Mid mountain passes, beautiful and wild. 

Where beard-like mosses load the giant trees, 



166 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

I wander with a wayward dark-eyed child 
Of love and song, as fearless as the breeze ! 
With her I catch the murmuring of the bees, 

The songs of birds around the brawny cliff; 
With her I watch the sunlight on the leas, 

Or by the cedar branches, firm and stiff. 

Descend the rugged height, and launch the floating skiff. 

Clear lies the stream beneath the summer sky, 

With little islands on its breast asleep ; 
Above its waves our fairy bark floats high, 

Or slowly winds beneath some frowning steep, 

Across whose brow the glossy woodbines creep. 
Now by the slant old tree we moor our boat, 

And in the bosom of its shadows deep. 
Listen, with dreamy spirits, to the note 
That swells with thrilling gush the oriole's golden throat. 

Oh Memory, thou wakener of the Dead ! 

Thou only treasurer of the vanished Past ! 
How welcome art thou when bright Hope is fled, 

And Sorrow's mantle o'er the soul is cast ! 

Back o'er those days, too beautiful to last. 
Thy gentle hand will lead the saddened thought ; 

And though the tears may trickle warm and fast, 
Yet thy sweet pictures with such peace are fraught. 
The heart beguiled, exclaims, ' This is the fount I sought !' 
1843. 



THE REDEEMED. 

Thy praise was on the lips of men — 

They called thee good and great ; 
And oh ! my heart with gladness, then, 

And triumph was elate. 
To see thee move a chief 'mid those 

Who feel the spell of worth, 
To track thy footsteps as they rose 

Above the sons of earth, — 
Oh this was joy and happy pride — 

A glimpse of life divine — 
For truer heart was ne'er allied 

To thee, dear friend, than mine. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Then came the dark and desolate day 

Of sin, and woe, and shame ; 
And all along thy pathway lay 

The lava's lurid flame. 
No longer sought thy hands the grasp 

Of hearty love and pride ; 
They met thee with a chilling clasp, 

Or coldly turned aside. 
And I, oh! bitterly indeed, 

I wept thy shameful fall ; — 
But yet my heart did not recede — 

I loved thee through it all ! 

I loved thee ; and I trusted still 

That thou wouldst yet redeem 
By thy strong, earnest, moral will. 

Thy soul from death's dark stream. 
I trusted that temptation's sway, 

O'er spirit high as thine, 
Like some hot plague would pass away, 

And leave thee at God's shrine. 
I trusted that the giant strength 

Of virtue in thy soul. 
Would break the withs of sin at length, 

And rise from its control. 

Oh, thanks to God ! 'T was not in vain 

I nerved my heart with faith, 
For thou art all thyself again, 

Redeemed from shame and death. 
Thy hand with dauntless nerve hath set 

The seal upon thy vow. 
And now I know when thou 'rt beset. 

Thy virtue will not bow. 
Oh joy ! Let angels catch the strain, 

And fill the courts above. 
To welcome back to heaven again 

The prodigal they love. 

Oh joy ! A thousand erring souls 

Are stronger than before ! 
And fiercely though temptation rolls, 

Will safely reach the shore. 



167 



168 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

When thou wert chief among the men 

Who walk in wisdom's way, 
Most excellent I thought thee then, 

And glorified thy sway. 
But oh ! to see thee spurn the tide 

Of sin, and death, and shame. 
And prove to those who sink, a guide 

To honor and good fame ! 

To see thee hold out hope to those 

Who, faint, and weak, and worn. 
Dread to perceive the dark waves close 

And hide the glimmering bourne ; 
Oh, friend, I tell thee ne'er hath yet 

My heart felt such a tide, 
As that which now o'ermantles it 

With gratitude and pride. 
Joy, joy I Oh, ever may my soul 

Increase His bright renown. 
Who helped thee reach the lofty goal, 

And win the victor's crown ! 
1843. 



THE LAST LAY. 



'T IS the last touch — the last ! and never more 

By the low-singing stream, or violet dell. 
Never beside the blue pond's grassy shore. 

Nor in the woodlands where the fountains swell, 
O, never more shall this wild harp resound 

To the light touches of impulsive thought ! 
No longer, echoed on the winds around, 

Shall float those strains with human passion fraught ; 
Never, O, never more ! 

'T is the last touch ! O, mighty Thought, return 

To thy deep, hidden fountains, and draw thence 
Words that through all the heart's lone depths shall burn ; 

Words, that inwrought with hope and love intense, 
Shall thrill and shake the soul, as God's own voice 

Shakes the high heavens, and thrills the silent earth ! 
Bring forth proud words of triumph, and rejoice 

That thy dear gift of song a holier birth 

Shall find, when this is o'er ! 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 169 

Too much in earlier days, departing soul, 

Thy song hath been of weakness and of tears ; 
Too much it yielded to the wild control 

Of love's unuttered dreams and shadowy fears ; 
And yet some strains of triumph have been heard, 

Some words of faith and hope that reached high heaven ; 
As the low warble of the summer bird. 

Singing away the hours of golden even, 

Blends with the cascade's roar ! 

Let it be loftier now I a strain to cleave 

The vaulted arch above ; a hymn of hope, 
Of joy, of deathless faith, for those who grieve ; 

High words of trust to fearful hearts that grope 
Through clouds and darkness to a midnight tomb ! 

Father of Love, thine energy impart 
To a frail spirit hovering o'er its doom ! 

Nerve with o'ermastering faith this weary heart 
Thy mysteries to explore ! 

If I have suffered in the mournful past, 

If withered hopes were on my spirit laid, 
If love, the beautiful, the bright, were cast 

Along my pathway but to droop and fade, — 
If the chill shadows of the grave were hung 

In life's young morning o'er my sunny way, 
I thank thee, O, my God, that I have clung 

To those eternal things that ne'er decay. 

E'en to ihr/ love and truth ! 

Now on the threshold of the grave I stand. 

One lingering look alone cast back to earth ; 
One lingering look to that beloved land 

Where human feeling had its tearful birth ; 
There stand the loved, with earnest eyes and words. 

Calling me back to life's sweet gushing streams ; 
They stand amid the flowers and singing birds. 

And where the fountain o'er the bright moss gleams. 
All flushed with buoyant youth ! 

They woo me back. I see their soft eyes melt 
With a beseeching love that speaks in tears ; 

Deeply their sorrowing kindness have I felt. 

And hid my pangs, that I might soothe their fears. 
15 



170 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

But now the seal is set — they cannot save ; 

In vain they hover round this wasting frame ; 
Let me rest, loved ones, in the peaceful grave, 

And leave to earth the little it may claim ; 
It cannot claim the soul! 

Nay, gentle friends, earth cannot claim the soul I 

Upward and onward its bold flight shall be ; 
The bosom of Eternal Love its goal, 

And light its crown, and bliss its destiny ! 
As the bright meteor darts along the sky. 

Leaving a trail of beauty on its way. 
So, winged with energy that cannot die. 

My soul shall reach the gates of endless day, 
And bid them backward roll! 

In vain, O death, thy iron grasp is set 

On nerves that quiver with delirious pain ; 
Claim not thy triumph o'er the spirit yet. 

For thou shalt die, but that shall live again. 
And thou, O sorrow, that with whetted beak 

Hast torn the fibres of a fervent heart, 
Thy final doom is not for me to speak. 

Yet thou, too, from thy carnage must depart, 
For God recalls his own. 

His own ! O, Father, 'mid the budding flowers 

And glittering dews of life's unclouded morn. 
Where there is thrilling music in the hours 

Of gentle hopes and young affections born, 
Through all its wanderings from thy holy throne, 

Through all its loiterings 'mid the haunts of joy, 
Hath my frail spirit been indeed thine own, 

By ties that time nor death can e'er destroy — 
Thine, Father, thine alone ! 

Shall it not still be thine, more nobly thine. 

When from the ruins of young hope it soars, 
And, entering into life and peace divine. 

Feels the full worth of what it now deplores ? 
No sorrows there shall stain its gushing springs ; 

No human frailties cloud its joyous way ; 
The bird that soars on renovated wings. 

And bathes its crest where dawns the golden day, 
Shall be less free and pure. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 171 

And more than this ! With vision all serene, 

Undimmed by tears, and bounded not by clouds, 
With naught thy goodness and its gaze between, 

And where no mystery thy purpose shrouds, 
The soul, the glorious soul, in works of love. 

Shall seek, and only seek to do thy will ; 
Highborn and holy shall its efforts prove. 

Thy bright designs and glory to fulfil, 

While thou and thine endure ! 
1843. 



SCENE IN A GRAVE-YARD. 

'T WAS an old grave-yard, dim with massy shade ; 

The long grass waved above the fallen stones ; 
And where the sexton, with his careless spade. 

Had thro\vn from their long rest the mouldering bones, 
The wind, with something of a mourner's grief. 
Had gathered o'er them many a veiling leaf. 

Beside a headstone, green with shining moss. 
And overhung with grass and violets rank, 

A woman knelt, and wreathed the old, gray cross 
With myrtle gathered from a streamlet's bank ; 

For a blue stream ran there arnid the graves. 

And nursed the wild flowers from its murmuring waves. 

Rich were the robes that trailed above the grass 
On which she knelt, and a long, mantling veil 

Of costliest broidery, hid the gleaming mass 
Of dark-brown hair, that o'er her forehead pale 

Its shadows cast, and fell in heavy curls 

Upon a throat half hid with strings of pearls. 

Her soft, white fingers wreathed the glossy vines 
With tender care around the graven name ; 

And something like a blush, amid the lines 
Of her pale cheeks, revealed awakened shame. 

She leaned her brow upon the soft, green moss, 

And tears of anguish wet the gray old cross. 

A child, a peasant child, beside the gate 

Of this old church-yard loitered ; and her eyes, 

With an expression, earnest, yet sedate. 
Were fixed upon the lady, in surprise. 



17^ POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Twice the poor child, with pity in her heart, 
Turned toward the gateway, yet could not depart. 

Then she advanced, then doubted, and then stopped ; 

Looked at her tattered dress and naked feet ; 
Looked at the bright, blue sky — then meekly dropped 

Upon her knees, and with a murmur sweet, 
Prayed God to bless the lady who had come 
To weep beside that old and humble tomb. 

childhood ! heaven abides within thy breast ; 
Love in untarnished streams flows freely there ; 

Thy heart for every wanderer would find rest, 

For every mourner lifts a fervent prayer ; 
And none so guilty, none so worn with grief, 
That thou wilt not essay to yield relief. 

The peasant girl was not unmarked ; her prayer, 
Her touching attitude, her soft, bright eyes, 

Thrilled to the lady's heart, and wakened there 
Rich human love, in prodigal supplies ; 

She rose and hastened to the kneeling child, 

Clasped her brown hand, bent over her, and smiled. 

" Thy prayer is not in vain, sweet wilding rose ! 

I have a heart, though hardened o'er with pride, 
Which the soft voice of childhood can unclose, 

And fill with tenderness to heaven allied. 

1 shall be better for thy simple prayer, 
For it hath broke the seal of proud despair. 

" Girl, thou art yet too young to feel the woe 
That womanhood can bring ; yet in thine eye 

I see a trace of thought which can foreknow 
The sorrows thy free heart may now defy. 

I see that trace ; O, much may it avail, 

When thou hast listened to my mournful tale." 

Leading her gently to the same old tomb 
Where she had knelt in penitence and tears. 

She made beside her, on its borders, room, 

And soothed with gentleness the poor child's fears. 

" Nay, dear one, fear me not," the lady said ; 

" I cast my pride aside when with the dead." 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 173 

Strange picture was it, that poor peasant girl, 
With tattered garments, and wild streaming hair, 

Seated by one whom broidered lace, and pearl, 
And robes of velvet made intensely fair ! 

Strange picture was it, yet they felt it not, 

For outward show in love was all forgot. 

The lady paused awhile, and memory sped 

Away to olden days and early dreams ; 
And through the wild and tangled paths that led 

Her steps away from youth's bright, sunny streams. 
While thus she mused, her cheek grew sad and pale ; 
Then waking from her dream, she thus began her tale : 

" Thou art, sweet girl, what I was, when a child ; 

A fair, bright, laughing thing, yet prone to tears ; 
A rambler in lone places, dim and wild ; 

With nature, bold — with man, a child of fears. 
A cottage was my home, as it is thine. 
And poorer than thy garb, dear girl, was mine. 

" I had no father. On a lone sea-isle. 

Where bright birds sing, and skies are fair and warm, 
Far from his home, and from his infant's smile. 

His comrades laid at rest his lifeless form. 
And my poor mother, on this world's wide sea, 
Had but one beacon left — her love for me. 

" 0, what a love ! and with what tireless care 
She wasted strength and ease to spare me want ! 

While I, as thoughtless as the summer air. 

Spent all my hours in some wild shadowy haunt ; 

There weaving those bright dreams of future joy, 

Which I have seen successive years destroy. 

" My spirit had a gift, a secret gift. 

Which answered only to the far, bright stars. 

When through the greenwood's liigh and changeful rift, 
Streamed down the light of Venus and of Mars ; 

Which answered only to the winds and streams. 

The sweet wood-blossoms, and the moon's pale beams. 

" Dear child, perhaps thou canst not understand 
The mystery of this gift. And yet, maybe, 

Thou 'st heard of those who consecrate the land 
With thrilling song, and plaintive minstrelsy. 
15* 



174 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

'T was poetry, dear girl, that swept my soul, 
And won me to its strong, yet sweet control. 

" I saw strange beauty in the silent things 
That others idly passed ; the small, wild bird 

That fluttered o'er the rose his bright, blue wings, 
The singing brook, by careless ears unheard. 

The wild flower swinging in the lonely dell, — 

All bound me with a strong and wondrous spell. 

" Rapt by the beauty of my own sealed thoughts, 
I grew estranged from human life and love ; 

And gathered round me, in my wild resorts, 
Bright spirits from the past, and from above ; 

Angels were with me — heroes, too, of old, 

And dreams of love that words have never told. 

" I saw the future — 't was a dazzling scroll ; 

There gleamed in lines of light my own bright fate ; 
There had the glorious triumphs of my soul 

Secured my name a place among the great ; 
And I, a peasant girl, untaught, unknown, 
Already dreamed of poet's crown and throne. 

" I grew delirious with my own wild hopes, 
And scorned the dull and silent life I led ; 

Like the sleep-walker, >vho in darkness gropes, 
So 'wildering visions filled my dizzy head ; 

And nursing by the streams the secret fire, 

I learned from them to tune my untaught lyre. 

" The few old books that graced our little shelf. 
Gave themes to my rude song ; I also sought 

For dawning sentiment within myself. 

And clothed with words of music my crude thought ; 

My fledgeling rhymes rang gayly through the wood. 

Like the first warblings of a nestling brood. 

" At length these dreams o'ermastered all my life ; 

Duty, affection, home, became as naught ; 
My mind with projects of proud fame was rife. 

And human glory guided every thought ; 
My purpose now was fixed — the world should know 
What hidden fires within my soul could glow. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 175 

" Dear child, the tale is long. 'T were vain to tell 

The cruel anguish of my mother's heart, 
When to my cottage-home I bade farewell, 

And from her sight she saw my form depart. 
She blessed me when the last farewell w-as spoken — 
She blessed me, though her heart was crushed and broken. 

' I never saw her more. In giddy throngs. 
Where youth, and beauty, and a dazzling wit 

Soon gained me rich applause, that mother's wrongs 
Became like dreams ; and yet remorse would flit 

At moments through my heart, and waken there 

A feeling not unlike its late despair. 

" But death released her ; and a peasant friend 
Sent me the mournful tidings. She had died 

Blessing her erring daughter, and her end 

Was one of triumph, though her soul was tried 

By my ingratitude. This parting gift — 

This lock of silvery hair, was all she left. 

" A year of bitter penitence and grief, 

A season of wild tumult in my soul, 
And I again, to seek a vain relief, 

Mixed with the crowd, and let its praises roll 
Like Lethe tides o'er memory's burning waste. 
Alas ! those waves had lost their early taste ! 

" Sweet child, forgive me ; it is surely strange 
That I should talk to thy young heart of love. 

And yet, I would describe the wondrous change 
That passed o'er earth and all the sky above ; 

A change that glorified the stars and flowers. 

And clothed with dreamy beauty all the hours. 

" I stood at evening in a dim alcove, 

O'erlooking moon-lit waters ; and my heart, 

With the impassioned tenderness of love. 
Was more than filled. I had removed apart 

From the gay crowd that revelled in the dance, 

To give free license to this sweet romance. 

" One came and stood beside me ; one whose words 
Were more than music — more, indeed, than thought ; 

May be, sweet child, thou 'si heard those woodland birds 
Whose notes with richest melody are fraught ; 



176 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

They are not half so rich, nor half so sweet, 
As were his tones, with fervent love replete. 

" The moon shone clear upon his high white brow. 
And softened the deep glory of his eye ; 

And tears were there, when love's first earnest vow 
Called for its witness from the far, bright sky ; 

Alas ! that pure and lofty heart, all mine, 

I blindly sacrificed at mammon's shrine. 

" I loved him I yes, I could have freely poured 
My heart's blood forth in secret, to have spared 

The slightest anguish to a mind that soared 
So loftily as his ; and yet I dared, 

With all my knowledge of this passion's sway, 

To cast his love, for worthless gold, away ! 

" I wedded one whom rank and wealth have placed 
High in this cold world's favor ; but his love 

Ne'er on my heart one burning line hath traced. 
Ne'er can his look or voice my spirit move ; 

Yet he is kind, and looks with tender pride 

Upon his haughty, though unhappy bride. 

" No joy for me in summer sun or air. 

No pleasure in the crowd that throngs my steps ; 

I spend my days in tears and silent prayer. 
My nights with this dear token at my lips — 

This parting token which that mother gave. 

Who sleeps in peace "within this humble grave, 

" My tale is ended now, dear, gentle girl ; 

My guilty tale ; 0, from its sadness, learn 
That peace is never found in pleasure's whirl, 

Nor where ambition's luring meteors burn. 
These bring no lasting joy ; in humble worth 
Lies all the enduring glory of this earth." 

The lady ceased ; and turning toward the child, 

Saw that her sweet young face was bathed in tears ; 

But weeping thus, the girl serenely smiled, 
Bright as the bow that on the cloud appears ; 

Then murmured, " Thou indeed hast felt the rod, 

Yet he who chastens, is he not thy God ? 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 177 

" Pray to him, gentle lady ; pray in faith, 

And he will give thee peace, and love, and joy ; 

Pray, lady, for our Saviour, even in death, 

Found strength in prayer that pain could not destroy ; 

And I, dear lady, J, so young, so gay. 

Have felt it sveeet to kneel me down and pray." 

" Pray on, sweet child, and God will give thee strength 
To keep thy pure young heart from earthly stains ; 

And I, yes, I shall find that peace at length, 
Which now alone to me in prayer remains. 

Thy words shall long within my spirit dwell. 

And soothe my thoughts like some redeeming spell. 

" But thou art sad ; go, seek the bird and bee, 
The glad bright waters, and all joyous things, 

And leave these dark old tombs to death and me, 
For sunshine ne'er to us its gladness brings ; 

Go, and God bless thee ! We shall meet again 

Where there is no more sorrow, sin, nor pain." 
1843. 

SIMPLICITY. 

Beneath a slant old forest tree, 

My little Lucy sat ; 
Her hands were dropped upon her knee, 
And on her head, she wore, like me, 

A rustic linen hat. 

My little Lucy was a child 

Of most angelic thought ; 
With every feeling soft and mild, 
With every vision sweet and wild, 

Her heart and soul were fraught. 

She sat among the woodland flowers. 

Among the woodland birds ; 
And ne'er, through all the summer hours, 
Was heard within those fragrant bowers 

Such music as her words. 

She prattled to the singing brook 

That murmured through the wood, 
And from each scalloped leaf that shook 
Above her head, her spirit took 

A more exalted mood. 



178 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

She heard the wild bees' drowsy hum 

Around the drooping larch, 
And fancied that the fays had come, 
With buglehorn and muffled drum, 
To beat a funeral march. 

She watched the blue-bird by the stream, 

Outpouring from his breast, 
The music of her own bright dream, 
A warbling that to her did seem 
The music of the blest. 

The spangled butterfly that came 

And nestled 'mid the grass. 
What was it, but a form and name 
For some sweet fancy, void of aim, 
That through her soul would pass ? 

She gazed upon the silent lake, 

Through boughs of greenest trees, 
And saw it to its bosom take 
The wild swan and the yellow drake, 
The sunbeams and the breeze. 

She thought these things made up the sum 

Of human love and life ; 
And never dreamed the days would come 
When nature's voices would grow dumb 

Before the spirit's strife. 

Ah, simple Lucy I would that fate 
Had left thee that young heart ! 
That all who struggle to be great. 
Might learn, ere yet it is too late. 
To choose the better part. 
1843. 



ANNIE. 

She was a fair, sweet girl. 

Gentle, yet gay ; 
And her blue eyes outshone 

The skies of May. 



1843. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 179 

Pious she was, and loved 

Of all things best, 
To lean on Jesus' arm, 

And feel at rest. 

She is a matron now, 

Loving and loved ; 
The beauty of her soul 

Has been long proved. 

Children with sunny eyes 

Sit at her feet. 
And sing their little hymns 

With voices sweet. 

Calmly her life flows on, 

Like some blue stream. 
Or like the life we lead 

In fairy dream. 

The poor and weary strew 

Flowers in her way. 
For she hath been their sun 

In sorrow's day. 

Heaven bless the blue-eyed girl. 

The matron kind ! 
Heaven bless her hearth and store, 

Her heart and mind ! 



AUTUMN MUSINGS. 
Father, thy presence in this great decay 

Is felt and recognized. The dead-leaf scent, 
The hectic streak, the golden autumn ray. 

The wave-hymn, with its summer joy half spent, 
The lingering bird, whose summer-friends have flown, 

The mottled foliage of the rustling tree. 
The faded paths, with fallen leaves o'erstrewn. 

All lead the heart by some strange link to Thee. 

I trace thy footsteps in the silent wood, 

And follow, wooed by many a mystic sign ; 

Feeling, intensely, that thy ways are good. 
And that thy works are everywhere divine. 



180 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Change is thy minister, severe, but wise ; 

It works out Life from Death, and Joy from Grief; 
Displaces summer's green by autumn dyes, 

And, to revive the root, destroys the leaf. 

Here lies a flower, its sweets forever lost, 

Its texture blemished, and its hue grown dim ; 
How much from Nature's hand that flower hath cost ; 

What days of care to form each fragile limb ! 
And yet thy minister, with reckless hand, 

Hath cast it idly on the sward away ; 
Over its matchless form hath swept his wand, 

And sent through every vein a swift decay. 

Yet from this waste the stores of Life are fed, 

And other days shall mark another change. 
When what we now lament as crushed and dead 

Shall have a brighter life, a form more strange. 
And from these tokens, Father, I have learned 

True lessons of the fate prepared for me — 
That not for Death, my spirit's lamp hath burned — 

It shall be lit again, and shine for Thee ! 
1843. 



LIZZY. 

" Our niece" (so all the relatives say,) 

Is a very superior child ; 
She 's pretty, and playful, and saucy, and gay, 

And funny, and wilful, and wild. 
And we have the loveliest walks and strolls — 

My little Lizzy and I — 
And open together our secret souls 

When none but the birds are nigh. 

Down by the brook where the wild-flowers grow. 

My niece to my bosom prest. 
With a heart of frolicksome love I go. 

For a season of joy and rest. 
And Lizzy, the sweet little laughing thing, 

Has a passion for brooks and flowers. 
And loves to stand on the bridge and fling 

The cardinals down in showers. 



1843. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 181 

And she claps her hands, as she sees them go 

Dancing adown the stream ; 
And I pray, meanwhile, that her life may flow, 

Like those blossoms, in Heaven's bright beam. 
She has a trick of smelling the flowers, 

And placing them in her hair. 
Which she does, of course, (she 's a niece of ours,) 

With a very bewitching air. 

But I must confess, to the detriment 

Of my little niece's taste. 
That her thoughts on flowers are not always bent, 

Nor her hands with cardinals graced ; 
She loves to plash in the shining wave 

The muddy, ponderous stone; 
And will fidget about, and scold, and rave, 

If she can't have a w^ay of her own ! 

She 's a famous mimic — can mock the cows, 

And crow like a chanticleer ; 
And she calls the dogs in the books, ^'Boiv-wows," 

And other things quite as queer ! 
She acts " good-bye" with a courteous bend 

Of her little curly head ; 
And of gracious " thank-ye's" there is no end 

When teasing for meat or bread. 

She thinks it is fine to get " grandpa's specs," 

And handle them like her own. 
And open the Bible, and read her text, 

In a sonorous, sing-song tone. 
I 'm sure she 's a very wonderful child ; 

Indeed, she "s the family pride ; 
And though some whisper, " Your niece will be spoiled," 

You know talent is always decried ! 



GROVE WORSHIPPINGS. 

Oh for the pomp of waters ! for the roar 
Of waves infuriate, plunging to be free ! 

For rocks deep-rent by lightnings, and hung o'er 
With moss, and vines, and manv a gnarled old tree ! 
16 



182 POETICAL SELECTIONS'. 

For thunderings, low and distant, and the sweH, » 

Monotonous, but deep, of the great sea ! 
And the slow throbbing toll of some old bell, 

At twilight heard, upon the bended knee ! 

Oh for a solitude upon some shore 

Where I might pour my spirit forth to Him, 
Who, by the anguish of the cross he bore. 

His bleeding side, wet brow, and quivering limb. 
Proved his deep suffering love for nie and mine ! 

Saviour, thou Son of God ! my soul hath sought 
In vain, through all its haunts, a fitting shrine 

Where it may lift to Thee its burning thought. 

Yet Thou wert never stern. Sublime, and strong, 

And sinless, yet most meek f Thy shrine should be 
Rather the haunt of wildflowers, where the song 

Of the bright black-bird thrills upon the tree. 
Than one of fearful grandeur, swept by storms, 

And filled with awful music from the waves. 
Or peopled with strange fantasies and forms 

That start to life from Memory's ivied graves. 

Here, in this loveliness of woods and shades. 

Where the dark pine is sighing in the breeze, 
Where the bright sunshine quivers through the glades. 

And falls in mottled gold beneath the trees. 
Here will I dedicate, with voiceless prayer, 

A holy altar unto God and Thee — 
And the dim wood, and the religious air, 

My temple and my sacristy shall be. 

A temple filled with flowers ! whose fragrant breath 

Comes o'er my sense like music o'er the soul ! 
The eye meets here no token of dread Death, 

No fragment of the spirit's broken bowl. 
All, all is joyous life ! and life is sweet. 

Could we but make it what Thy love designed — 
A state where soul its kindred souls may meet, 

And love with mortal love may be entwined. 

Life is not what it should be, what thy word 

Scattered in old Judea, years ago, 
Would make it even now, if rightly heard, 

And followed in our being's daily flow. 



1843. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 183 

Oh Saviour ! wars are with us, and bold crimes ; 

And man looks up beneath the fair blue sky 
And mocks thy name ; and there are fearful times 

When Sin walks by us with defying eye. 

We need Thee with us — Thee, whose patient life 

Was one calm triumph of the Good and True ; 
We need Thee here to still our heartless strife, 

To love and weep as Thou wert wont to do ! 
Wert Thou but here, our steps would follow Thee; 

We would throw by these idols of an hour, 
These dreams of love and greatness, and be free ! 

Nor free alone, but nerved with victor-power ! 

And art Thou not, oh Prince of Glory, here? 

Can we not follow where thy feet have trod, 
And, by an humble love and faith sincere. 

Approach the likeness of the Son of God ? 
Thy Life is with us, and thy quickening Word — 

Shall these be hidden from our daily sight, 
Or only 'neath the temple's arches heard, 

Or dreamed of in the still , inactive night ! 

Oh, no ! Thy holy lessons shall be learned 

By wayside connings in our daily walk. 
And, as the hearts of thy disciples burned 

When listening, as they journeyed, to thy talk, 
So shall our souls be thrilled, our hearts subdued, 

By the deep wisdom of thy gentle speech, 
Until with light, and peace, and love imbued, 

Thy kingdom, and its rest divine, we reach. 



THE SUPREMACY OF GOD. 



The clouds broke solemnly apart, and, mass 

By mass, their heavy darkness bore away 
With sullen mutterings, leaving mountain pass 

And rocky defile open to the day. 
The pinnacles of Zion glittering lay 

In the rich splendor of Jehovah's light, 
Which, pouring down with a meridian sway. 

Bathed mouldering tower and barricaded height 
In floods of dazzling rays, bewildering to the sight ! 



184 POETICAL SELKCTIONS. 

Grod shone upon the nations. In the west 

The owl-like Druid saw the brightening rays, 
And muffling his gray robes across his breast, 

Strode like a phantom from the coming blaze. 
Old Odin, throned amid the polar haze, 

Heard the shrill cry of Vala on the blast, 
And glancing southward with a wild amaze. 

Saw God's bright banner o'er the nations cast. 
Then to his dim old halls, retreated far and fast ! 

But nearer yet, and quivering in the blaze 

That wrapt Olympus with a shroud of glory, 
Great Jove rose up — the pride of Rome's proud days — 

His awful head with centuries grown hoary, 
His sceptre reeking, and his mantle gory ! 

Great Jove, the dread of each inferior god, . 
Renowned in song, immortalized in story, 

No longer shook Olympus with his nod, 
But, shivering like a ghost, down, down to Hades trod ! 

Egyptian Isis, from the mystic rites 

Of her voluptuous priesthood , shrank in awe, 

Mazed by the splendor throned on Zion's heights, 
More dreadful than the flame which Israel saw 
Break forth from Sinai when God gave the law ! 

To her more dreadful, for beneath its sway, 

She saw, with prophet-gaze, how soon her power 

Must, like the brooding night-haze, melt away. 
And leave her where the mists of ages lower. 
The grim ghost of a dream, mocked in the noontide hour ! 

And gentler deities — the spirits bright 

That haunted mountain glen and woodland shade ; 
That watched o'er sleeping shepherds through the night 

And blessed at early dawn the bright-eyed maid — 
The nymphs and dryads of the fount and glade, 

The blest divinities of home and hearth. 
These, with an exile footstep, slowly strayed, 

And lingered by each haunt of olden mirth 
Till their bright forms grew dim, and vanished from the earth. 

Now God is God ! The Alpine summit rings 
With the loud echoes of Jehovah's praise ; 

And from the valley where the cow-boy sings. 
Go up to God alone, his votive lays. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS* 185 

To Him, the mariner at midnight prays ; 

To Him uplifts the yearnings of his soul ; 
And where the day-beam on the snow-peak plays, 

And where the thunders o'er the deserts roll, 
His praise goes swelling up, and rings from pole to pole ! 
His Spirit animates the lowliest flower. 

And nerves the sinews of the loftiest sphere ! 
In every globule of the falling shower, 

In each transition of the varied year, 
[ts life, and light, and wondrous power appear. 

It burns, all glorious, in the noonday sun, 
And from the moon beams forth serenely clear, 

Or, when the day is o'er and eve begun, 
Flings forth the radiant flag no other god hath won. 
All hail, Jehovah ! Hail, Supremest God ! 

Where'er the whirlwind stalks upon the seas. 
Where'er the giant thunderbolt hath trod 

Or turned a furrow for the summer breeze, 
Where liquid cities round Spitzbergen freeze 

And lift their ice-spires to the electric light 
Or soft Italian skies and flowering trees 

Their balmy odors and bright hues unite — 
There art Thou, Lord of Love, unrivalled in thy might ! 
Praise, praise to Thee from every breathing thing ! 

And from the temples of adoring hearts. 
Science to Thee her sky-reapt fruits shall bring 

And Commerce rear thine altars in her marts. 
Thou shalt be worshipped of the glorious Arts, 

And sought by Wisdom in her dim retreat ; 
The student, brooding o'er his mystic charts, 

Shall mark the track of thy star-sandalled feet. 
Till, through the Zodiac traced, it mounts thy Mercy-seat! 

Praise, praise to Thee from peaceful home and hearth ; 

From hearts of humble hope and meek desire ; 
Praise from the lowly and the high of earth, 

From palace hall and frugal cottage fire. 
We cannot lift our spirit-yearnings higher. 

Nor speed them upward to a loftier goal ; 
Then let us each with fervent thought aspire 

To cast aside the chain of earth's control. 
And stand in God's own light, communers with God's soul ! 
1844. ig^ 



186 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 



LUTHEB. 



'TwAS night, black night, o'er Christendom* 
And denser night within men's souls ; 

Thought slumbered in a human tomb. 
And truth lay hid in dusty scrolls. 

A voice rose clear, amid the gloom 

And silence of this awful night ; 
A voice that rent the bolted tomb, 

And called the mouldering dead to light. 

A voice sublime, yet calm and sweet, 
Was heard along the cloistered aisles ; 

It echoed through the crowded street, 
And shook the old cathedral piles. 

It was the voice of one who long 

Had crouched beneath the papal rod ; 

He rose at last, sublime and strong, 
The Champion of the Word of God ! 

Rome shook her sceptered arm in wrath, 
And threw her snares along his way ; 

He swept them lightly from his path — 
A giant with a thread at play. 

Truth, mighty in his soul, spake out. 
And Error with her midnight train. 

Blind Superstition, Fear, and Doubt, 
Fell, ne'er to rise so strong again I 

When papal thunders shook the sky, 
And hurled their red bolts at his head, 

He raised the Word of God on high, 

And shining helms were round him spread. 

When proud Philosophy, with sneers, 

Upon his holy " Theses" trod, 
He poured within its startled ears 

The wisdom of the Word of God. 

Old monks peered out from gloomy cells. 
And raised their cowls in mute surprise ; 

Fair nuns forgot their vesper bells, 
And hope shone in their sweet, young eyes^ 



1844. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 187 

The priests, like hissing serpents, spat 

Their harmless venom in his face ; 
But at his feet poor sinners sat, 

And wept to hear him talk of grace. 

Young men, with true and earnest hearts, 

Gazed on him with adoring eyes ; 
And left the lore of human arts. 

To learn the wisdom of the skies. 

The stream of Truth ran freely forth, 

And swept the cloister walls away ; 
Young vestals learned the love of earth, 

And loving, better learned to pray. 

Such fruits the great Reformer saw 

Hang clustering on his planted tree ; 
And though condemned by human law, 

He felt himself in Christ made free. 

His was the lesson deep ingrained 

Within the tablature of life — 
That freedom of the soul is gained 

Alone through battle and through strife. 

O, be his holy lessons ours ! 

Let us pursue the path he trod, 
And prove, in face of human powers. 

Bold champions of the Word of God ! 



THE ANSWERED PRAYER. 

I PRAYED for Beauty — for the magic spell 

That binds the wisest with its potent thrall. 
That I within fond human hearts might dwell, 

And shine the fairest in the festal hall. 
I would have seen the lordliest bend the knee. 

The loveliest bow, o'erdazzled by my charms ; 
While he I long had vainly loved — ah, he, 

Subdued, should clasp me fondly in his arms! 

But Beauty o'er my spirit waved her wing, 
Yet shed no brightness on my form or face ; 

And passing years but darker shadows fling 
Upon the cheek where care hath left its trace. 



188 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

My prayer, if heard in heaven, hath been denied; 

No heart bows humbly 'neath my Beauty's sway ; 
And he I loved, now seeks a fairer bride, 

With brighter blushes and a smile more gay. 

I prayed for Riches. Oh ! for lavish wealth, 

To pour in golden showers on those I loved ; 
I would have gladly spent my youth and health. 

Could I, by gifts like these, my love hath proved. 
I prayed for Riches, that before God's shrine 

I might with gifts and costly tribute kneel ; 
And thought the treasures of Golconda's mine 

Too poor to show the favor of my zeal. 

Alas ! wealth came not ; and the liberal deeds 

My heart devised , my hand must fail to do ; 
And though o'er prostrate Truth my spirit bleeds. 

In vain the aid of magic gold I woo. 
The poor may plead to me for daily food. 

And those I love in lowly want may pane ; 
I will pour out for them my heart's warm blood. 

But other gifts than this can ne'er be mine 

I prayed for Genius — for the power to move 

Hard hearts, and recldess minds, and stubborn wills, 
To execute the holy deeds of love. 

And light Truth's fires upon a thousand hills. 
I prayed for Eloquence to plead the cause 

Of human rights, and God's eternal grace ; 
To cry aloud o'er Mercy's outraged laws, 

And speed the great redemption of my race. 

But all in vain. My feeble tongue can breathe 

No portion of the fire that burns within ; 
In vain my fancy vivid thoughts may wreathe 

In scorching flames to vanquish human sin. 
Powerless my words upon the air float by. 

And wrong and crime, disdain the weak crusade ; 
While vice gleams on me its exultant eye. 

And bids me show the conquests I have made. 

I prayed for Peace — for a strong heart to bear 
The keen privations of my humble fate ; 

For patient faith to struggle with despair, 
And shed a brightness o'er my low estate. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 189 

I prayed to be content with humble deeds, 

With " widow's mites," and scanty charities ; 

To follow meekly where my duty leads, 
Though through the lowliest vale of life it lies. 

This prayer was answered ; for a peace divine 

Spread through the inmost depths of all my heart ; 
I felt that that same blessed lot was mine 

Which fell on her who chose the better part. 
What though the world abroad ne'er hears my name ? 

What though no chains upon weak hearts I bind? 
It is a happier lot than Wealth or Fame, 

To do my duty with a willing mind ! 



1845. 



ECCLESIASTES IX. 10. 

A LABORER, in the field of golden grain, 

Sang at his toil ; and though his weary limbs 
He gladly on the soft grass would have lain. 

Where the breeze wandered , and the birds their hymns 
Poured from the oak-tree boughs, yet evermore, 
Whene'er he heard the pine-tree's softened roar, 
Or the clear gush of waters, or the hum 
Of the wild bees, that from the woodlands come, 
Or the low breath of flowers where'er he trod, 
A voice passed through him like the voice of God, — 
" Work while the day is thine ! Be strong, be brave ! 
There is no labor for thee in the grave." 

In a dim room, shut from the proud world's eye, 
A youthful artist wrought. Not lone to him 

This humble studio. Visions hovered nigh, 
Most beautiful in attitude and limb. 

Yet saddened by the shapes of loveUness 

That thronged his brain to prodigal excess. 

And by the feebleness of his young hand, 

Which faltered in the work his soul had planned, 

He would have fainted. But a voice spake clear, 

As though a spirit breathed it in his ear, — 

" Up ! Let thy hand these glorious visions save ! 

There is no device in the dreamless grave." 



1,90 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

A student, pale with vigils kept at night 

O'er the dark pages of an ancient tongue, 
Opened his chamber to the soft starlight, 

And on his couch his languid body flung. 
" Vain, vain this toil !" he murmured, as the tears 
Gushed hotly forth. " O, long and weary years 
Must in such strife be spent ! Day after day. 
Still must I labor, suffer, weep and pray ! 
And if I fail at last !" Then, faint and far, 
A voice responded from his favorite star, — 
" Toil on ! Thy spirit shall not vainly crave. 
Toil on ! There is no knowledge in the grave." 

" Truth, why elude me thus 1 Have I not vowed 

A long unswerving homage at thy shrine ? 
Alas, my brain is weak, my spirit bowed ! 

Why should I longer seek to make thee mine ?" 
The stern philosopher, with shrouded head, 
Thus mourned that wisdom from his spirit fled ; 
And half resolved to throw his labors by. 
And lay him down despairingly and die. 
Then Wisdom, softened by her lover's tears. 
With these sweet words his drooping spirit cheers, — 
" Mourn not, thou faithful ! Lo, I am thy slave I 
Take me ! there is no wisdom in the grave." 

So, evermore, some voice the heart of man 
Cheers in his labors. He doth ever feel 

Some gladdening inspiration in his plan. 

Some sunbeam to his darkest moments steal. 

Earth is for labor — for the body's strife 

With passions that disturb the spirit's life ; 

For noble exercise of lofty powers ; 

For strewing life's dark desert-paths with flowers ; 

And when we faint, or feel our labors vain, 

A voice from heaven renerves our souls again, — 

" Work while the day is thine ! Be strong, be brave ! 

There will be rest enough within the grave." 
1845. 



1845. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 191 

SONG. 
My heart is an Eolian lyre 

That thrills to every passing hreath ; 
Now touched as with seraphic fire, 

Now wailing like the voice of death. 
Old memories come, like vernal airs, 

And wake long silent songs of love ; 
And buried hopes, and early prayers. 

Like vesper music o'er it move. 

And like the softest southern gale. 

Thy love, mine own, sweeps o'er its strings, 
And sweeter than a minstrel's tale. 

From every chord new music springs. 
Deep, sometimes, as an organ's tone, 

An anthem bursts at every touch ; 
O, leave it then with God alone ! 

For God alone can waken Such. 

My heart is an Eolian lyre. 

That wakes and sings at every breath, 
Now touched as with seraphic fire, 

Now wailing like the voice of death . 



THE NEW HOME. 

A BLESSING on this cottage home ! 

And on these green, o'erhanging trees. 
Whence the sweet, balmy perfumes come. 

Borne down upon the summer breeze. 
A blessing on this threshold fall, 

A blessing on ihis lowly roof ! 
Here, free from Fashion's gilded thrall. 

We '11 dwell from worldly Pride aloof. 

Here quiet like a dove shall brood. 

And build in every heart a nest ; 
Here shall a social solitude 

Pervade and hallow every breast. 
We '11 plant the roses by the door, 

Where throws the sun his golden darts ; 
But more — ah, we will strive for more, 

To plant bright roses in our hearts. 



192 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Below us, in the verdant glen, 

Our little favorite Bow Brook glides, 
As fresh and beautiful as when 

"We earliest trod its grassy sides. 
There still the wild rose blooms as free, 

As gayly still the blue-bird sings ; 
Still 'mid the clover hums the bee, 

And stores the honey 'neath his wings. 

The alder copse along the shore. 

Winds in and out with native grace ; 
And gadding shrubs and vines creep o'er 

And on the topmost boughs embrace. 
The little meadow lies below. 

Half hidden by the circling trees ; 
One moment in a sunny glow, 

Then veiled in shadov^' by the breeze. 

But these are only outward scenes, 

Which suit some cloudless summer day ; 
When winter darkly intervenes. 

What then shall while the hours away 1 
Ah, Shakspeare, kind old bard, will cheer 

Our fireside with some mirthful tale. 
Or with the wanderings of poor Lear, 

Make tears in laughter's place prevail. 

Then Burns his tender lays shall sing. 

Until our hearts grow soft and warm ; 
While o'er our roof the Northern King 

Rides muffled in the fleecy storm. 
And if those hearts shall keenly feel 

The chastening of some heavy rod, 
From lightsome mirth we '11 softly steal. 

And read alone the word of God. 

Then blessings on our threshold rest, 

That whosoe'er shall o'er it tread. 
May feel bright sunshine in his breast, 

And gladness round his being spread ! 
Ne'er hence shall be the beggar thrust, 

Ne'er welcomed be the oppressor in ; 
So God shall hold it in his trust, 

And guard it evermore from sin. 
1845. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

ROSABELLE. 
Where the wood-anemones rose and fell 
O'er the mossy turf, in the wind's low swell ; 
Where the dew-drops lay in the violet's cup 
Till high in the zenith the sun rose up ; 
Where the sunbeams entered through veils of green, 
And fell on the brooks with a softened sheen ; 
Where the song of the robin came faint and sweet, 
From the far-off fields of the waving wheat ; 
There, in that shady and quiet dell, 
Was the daily haunt of young Rosabelle ! 

The spring whose waters were dripping by 

Was not more clear than her hazel eye ; 

And the cardinal flower that in autumn grew 

Where the bank was now with young violets blue, 

Had never a color could half eclipse 

The brilliant red of her dimpled lips. 

Her voice ! 't was the voice of a bird just floAvn, 

When the distance has softened its clear, shrill tone ■ 

When it blends with the sigh of the waving pine, 

Up, far up in the warm sunshine ! 

But Nature, that rivalled her lip and eye, 

That echoed her voice in its own sweet sigh, 

Had never a symbol in glade or bower, 

In the sunniest fount or the fairest flower, 

Could half tlie beauty or brightness tell 

Of the lofty soul of young Rosabelle ! 

Here came she, not for the flowers alone, 
Though these a spell o'er her heart had thrown ; 
Nor stole she away to this lonely glen 
In dark distrust of the hearts of men ; 
Nay, it was love, 't was the pure, high love 
Which angels feel in the realms above ; 
'T was love for the beautiful, true and good, 
That filled her soul in that quiet wood. 
Oft mid the silence and holy calm, 
Of a light half shadow, an air all balm, 
She sought with the ardor of hopeful youth. 
The holy counsels of God and Truth. 
To seek out want, and relieve distress. 
To guide and strengthen, to love and bless. 
17 



193 



194 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

To lift the fallen, and speak of peace 
In a world where the errors of this life cease ; 
These were the aims that from day to day 
Over her spirit gained stronger sway, 
And drew for prayer to the woodland dell 
The sunny heart of young Rosabelle ! 
1845. 



1845. 



TO THE MORNING WIND. 

Haste with thy message, carrier breeze, 
While yet the dew is on thy wing ; 

But pause amid my native trees 
A little while, to sing ! 

Into my Mary's chamber steal, 
And on her pillow leave my kiss, 

That her soft cheek at night may feel 
A gentle thrill of bliss. 

Pause by my native stream and lave 

Thy bosom in its silvery tide, 
Or o'er the blue and tranquil wave 

In sunny dimples glide. 

Through the old woods thy journey take, 
And from its flowers their perfumes bear, 

Yet, in return, sweet sounds awake. 
For Mary may be there ! 

Thence, with a sunbeam's speed, away 
O'er many a field and dazzling stream ! 

Pause not amid the grass to play. 
Nor where the lilies gleam. 

At close of day thy pinions fold ; 

Upon my loved one's bosom lie ; 
Nestle amid his locks of gold. 

And kiss his soft blue eye. 

Breathe health through every beating vein, 
And murmur sweetly in his ear, 

(To charm away his weary pain,) 
The name he loves to hear. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 195 

VOICE TO A PILGRIM. 

FROM HIS GUARDIAN SPIRIT. 

" The long way that I must tread alone, appears to me sometimes a valley 
of shadows." 

Dear Pilgrim, not alone shall be thy journey, 
Nor through the valley shall thy pathway lie ; 

Thy future track, though strewn with rocks and thorny, 
Up through the mountain mists ascendeth high. 

And on those mists shall fall a golden beauty, 
And rainbow hues shall span the weary way. 

And in thy heart shall shine the light of duty, 
And on thy brow shall fall love's glittering spray. 

And like the music of a hidden river. 

Winding its way beneath some verdant arch, 

Shall sound within thy spirit's depths forever, 
A voice, to cheer thee in thy toilsome march. 

A voice whose tenderness shall never falter. 

Never until in death's deep silence lost ; 
Which shall breathe worship at thy spirit's altar 

Through every struggle, and at every cost. 

And, Pilgrim, shouldst thou hear Fame's clarion ringing, 
High up the summit where thy footsteps tend, 

O, be not heedless of this low voice singing — 
This low voice of thy true and faithful friend. 

If in thy spirit dwells one loved ideal. 

One vision to thy gentle nature dear, 
O, give it power to soothe the rough and real, — 

Let it have skill thy weary heart to cheer. 

If in the inner shrine of thy pure being. 

This vision like a guardian spirit dwell. 
What matters it though time, too swiftly fleeing, 

Bring thee, erewhile, a long and sad farewell? 

Thou shalt not be alone while love is with thee. 

While its pure prayers are round thee fondly thrown ; 

Like some good angel it will soar beneath thee 
To bear thee up ; — thou shalt not be alone. 



196 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Nay, not alone. The pure, the good, the gifted, 
Dwell in a world with blessed angels rife ; 

Above the lower crowd by God uplifted, 
They lead a high, but not a lonely life. 

And so, dear Pilgrim, by pure thoughts attended, 
And generous deeds, those harvesters of bliss, 

And Love, with not one selfish feeling blended, 
Content to ask alone thy happiness ; 

By these, and God's own presence in thy spirit, 
Thou shalt be guided on thine upward way ; 

The crown is there — and that thou win and wear it, 
Thy guardian spirit will not cease to pray. 
1845. 



"CHARLOTTE. 



Mrs. Chablotte A. Jerauld, a writer dear to the hearts of the Univer- 
salist denomination, departed this life on the second day of August, aged 25 
years. In a letter, dated a fortnight previous to her death, she writes as 
follows : 

" I am longing to get into the country, to smell the green trees and she 
fresh air : and sometimes I get so tired of waiting to go, that it seems as if I 
were destined to die in the dust and heat of this crowded city, pining for the 
breath of flowers. In the cold, stormy days of winter, I always shrink fear- 
fully from the thoughts of death, and the cold, damp, snow-covered grave ; 
but in the burning days of summer it wears a different aspect, and one can 
think, with a feeling akin to pleasure, of its cool, dark, flower-wreathed 
chambers." 

Thy wish is granted, dearest ; thou art gone 
To the green fields and freshly breathing air, 

Where ever round thee plays the breeze of morn, 
And waving shadows fleck thy dew-sprent hair. 

The flowers at thy feet, — the dear-loved flowers ; 

Young violets, scented with the breath of heaven, 
And radiant lilies, and o'erhanging bowers 

Of loveliest roses, shedding dews at even ! 

Amid them, fairest blossom of them all, 

Thy child, thy love-flower, sports the hours away : 

No shadow on its heart will ever gall, 
No raging sin, nor wasting, slow decay ! 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 197 

Why should I weep for thee ^ / have not wept ! 

For though fond hearts and holy ties were riven, 
I could not mourn that thy tired body slept, 

And that thy spirit had gone home to heaven ! 

In summer, when the earth was fair with flowers, 
When zephyrs whispered 'mid the green old trees, 

When there was music in the vine-wreathed bowers, 
Shed from the wings of humming-birds and bees ; 

When all was beautiftil in earth and sky, 

And thou, grown weary with thy pain and dread, 

Felt how serene and blest it were to lie 

In " the cool, flower- wreathed chambers of the dead.'" 

Then God, thy Father, heard thy murmured prayer ; 

Home to his arms he took his weary child, 
No more to strive with sin, or pain, or care, 
A spirit glorified and undefiled ! 
1845. 



THE RETROSPECT. 

Yes, we are very old, Johnny, 

Our locks are white and thin ; 
We've walked together, hand in hand. 

Full threescore years and ten. 
We have no worldly gear, Johnny, 

Our hearth is dim and cold ; 
We feel a stiffness in our limbs — 

We feel that we are old ! 

But let us warm our hearts, Johnny, 

At the old burning shrines. 
And open up a store of gold 

From Memory's wondrous mines ; 
Let 's talk of good old times, Johnny, 

When life and love were young, 
And gay as birds our bounding hearts 

Within our bosoms sung. 

I am thinking of the glen, Johnny, 
And the little gushing brook — 

Of the birds upon the hazel copse, 
And violets in the nook. 

17* 



198 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

I am thinking how we met, Johnny, 

Upon the little bridge ; 
You had a garland on your arm 

Of flag-flowers and of sedge. 

You placed it in my hand, Johnny. 

And held my hand in yours ; 
You only thought of that, Johnny, 

But talked about the flowers. 
We lingered long alone, Johnny, 

Above that shaded stream ; 
We stood as though we were entranced 

In some delicious dream. 

It was not all a dream, Johnny, 

The love we thought of then. 
For it hath been our life and light 

For threescore years and ten. 
But ah ! we dared not speak it. 

Though it lit our cheeks and eyes ; 
So we talked about the news, Johnny, 

The weather and the skies. 

At last I said " Good night," Johnny, 

And turned to cross the bridge. 
Still holding in my trembling hand 

The pretty wreath of sedge. 
But you came on behind, Johnny, 

And drew my arm in yours, 
And said, " You must not go alone 

Across the barren moors." 

O, had they been all flowers, Johnny, 

And full of singing birds, 
They could not have seemed fairer 

Than when listening to those words " 
The new moon shone above, Johnny, 

The sun was nearly set, 
The grass that crisped beneath our feet 

The dew had slightly wet. 

One robin, late abroad, Johnny, 
Was winging to its nest ; 

I seem to see it now, Johnny, 
The sunshine on its breast. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 199 

You put your arm around me, 

You clasped my hand in yours, 
You said, " So let me guard you 

Across these lonely moors." 

At length we reached the field, Johnny, 

In sight of father's door ; 
We felt that we must part here ; 

Our eyes were running o'er. 
You saw the tears in mine, Johnny, 

I saw the tears in yours ; 
" You 've been a faithful guard, Johnny," 

I said, " across the moors." 

Then you broke forth in a gush, Johnny, 

Of pure and honest love. 
While the moon looked down upon you 

From her holy throne above. 
And you said, " We need a guide, Ellen, 

To lead us o'er Life's moors ; 
I 've chosen you for mine, Ellen, 

0, would that I were yours !" 

We parted with a kiss, Johnny, 

The first, but not the last ; 
I feel the rapture of it yet. 

Though threescore years have passed ! 
And you kissed my golden curls, Johnny, 

That now are silvery gray. 
And whispered, " We are one, Ellen, 

Until our dying day !" 

That dying day is near, Johnny, 

But we are not dismayed ; 
We have but one dark moor to cross, 

Why need we be afraid ? 
We 've had a hard Life's row, Johnny, 

But the shore is near at hand ; 
O, sweet the rest that waits us now 

In Love's own Holy Land ! 

Cheer up, and take thy staff, Johnny, 

The good, stout staff of fiiith ; 
It will aid thy trembling footsteps 

Adown the vale of death. 



200 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

We 're very poor and cold, Johnny, 

But God is rich in love ; 
He '11 give us food and raiment 
In his blessed house above ! 
1846. 



THE FERRY. 



The Boatman now unmoors his bark, 

The oar is tilting in his hand ; 
The waters roar, the way is dark. 

The Maiden fears to quit the land. 

" Hark ! 'T is the moaning of the gale ! 

Alas, a drear and perilous night 
To venture in a bark so frail ! 

Wait, Boatman, wait the morning light!" 

" Abroad ! abroad ! I may not stay ; 

This is a subterranean stream, 
Ne'er shone on by the morning ray, 

Nor open to the evening beam." 

Stern was his voice, his look severe ; 

The Maiden took his icy hand ; 
It thrilled her with a shivering fear. 

It dragged her rudely from the strand. 

A noise of waters filled her ears ; 

A dizzy sense of rapid flight, 
A press of strange and awful fears 

Bewildered all her soul and sight. 

Silent she lay, in deep despair ; 

The bark tossed wildly on the waves. 
And o'er her brooded everywhere. 

The stifled atmosphere of graves ! 

" Lo, I am with thee !" and an arm 
Around her form, was gently thrown ; 

" Look up, beloved ! Fear no harm ; 
Thou shalt not cross the deep alone !" 

So sweet a voice, so fair a brow 
Assured the Maiden's failing heart; 

"Blessed Redeemer ! Is it Thou? 

I 'm safe with thee, where'er thou art !" 



1846. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 201 

A golden line like break of day 

Shone brightly through the quivering gloom ; 
The waves grew still, and o'er their way 

Soft stole the breath of flowers in bloom. 

" The land ! the land !" the Maiden cried ; 

" What name to port so fair is given 1" 
" It is Our Home !" the Lord replied ; 

" Thy home ? It is ! — it is, then — Heaven !" 



BIEMORY'S PICTURE-GALLERY. 

A SUNSET glow, a sudden light, 

Serene, delicious, warm, and ruddy, 

Falls through the oriel, richly dight, 
Across the painter's antique study. 

I wander down the corridor 

In breathless awe and voiceless wonder ; 
My footsteps echo o'er the floor, 

Like low and muttering summer-thunder. 

Rich pictures fill each carved niche. 

With rare and precious antique facings ; 

And all the walls above are rich 

With dark and curious frescoed tracings. 

One picture shows an ancient mill ; 

The willow-tree hangs hghtly o'er it, 
While with a queenly pride the hill 

Swells up its rounded breast before it. 

And like a young lamb's fleece, the stream 
Foams soft and white within its shadow ; 

Or gives, by many a fitful gleam. 

The gold-green reflex of the meadow. 

What scene is this ? A fairy isle, 
Upon a bright, blue, mountain river ; 

The sunlit waves around it smile, 
The aspens o'er it droop and shiver. 

A little bark is moored thereby ; 

O, fair and soft the hands that row it ! 
And dark as midnight is the eye 

Of sweet Sheshequin's gentle poet ! 



202 POETICAL SELECTIONS, 

Her barque 'neath flowery shadows floats, 
Its sail a broad and starry banner ! 

While softly to the rower's notes 

Chimes in the low-voiced Susquehanna ! 

Here runs a long, long, silent line 
Of startling, glowing human faces ! 

O, sure the hand must be divine 

That draws these wondrous, burning traces ! 

And here — ah, pause ! suspend thy breath ! 

A glorious-eyed, divine young creature, 
Yet with an early, mournful death 

Soft shadowed forth on every feature ! 

I leave the portraits. They bring back 
Too many a dead, half wasted sorrow ; 

Let me return upon my track 

And leave old faces till to-morrow ! 

Amid these fairy landscape views, 

I feel the joys of early childhood. 
— Hush ! these are old familiar hues 

Brightening this autumn-lighted wildwood ! 

Where am I ? I have known this stream — 
This narrow bridge — these elms, o'erarching ; 

Or am I, in a haunted dream, 

Through Sleep's long picture-gallery marching ? 

Have I not wandered here with one 
Who loves, as I love, gentle Nature 1 

I see him now, the autumn sun 
Enkindling every earnest feature ! 

This painter's colors are too faint 

To give those lineaments completeness ; 

O, not yet he, but Love shall paint 

That face of tender, fervent sweetness ! 

Yonder he still pursues his art ; 

Lo, see him now ! Beneath his fingers 
What beauty gushes from his heart ! 

How fondly o'er his sketch he lingers ! 

A sweet child, with a woman's brow, 

O'ershaded by soft wavy tresses ; 
Large, angel eyes, and lips that now 

Seem made for dimples, now for kisses ! 



1846. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 203 

He paints a halo round her head ! — 

" O, painter ! with a hand so busy, 
What angel pain test thou 1" He said 

With touching love, " The angel Lizzy." 

Still roam I through this corridor, 

In breathless awe and voiceless wonder : 
My footsteps echo o'er the floor. 

Like low and muttering summer-thunder. 

And still the painter at his art 

Toils ever, some bright picture shading. 
Until the gallery of the heart 

OWJbivs with images unfading ! 



THE BEGGAR'S DEATH SCENE. 

High stream the crimson banners of the west 
Over the monarch, sinking to his rest ; 
Purple and scarlet, royal blue and gold. 
Droop o'er his couch in many a heavy fold ; 
The moon dips low her silver horn to shed 
Soft, dreamy lays upon her sovereign's head ; 
And brooks, and birds, and breezes sweetly sing 
Their low-toned vespers round the slumbering king. 

One parting glance the weary day-god throws ; 
See ! How along the mountain ridge it glows, 
Shoots through the forest aisles, transmutes the rills, 
And kindles up the old rock-crested hills ! 
It falls upon a peaceful woodland scene — 
It lights the moaning brook and banks of green, 
Streams o'er the Beggar's long, loose, silvery hair, 
Who, dying, lies upon the greensward there ! 

All day in weakness, weariness, and pain. 
The old Man 'neath those drooping boughs hath Iain ; 
The birds above him singing, and the breeze 
Rustling th' abundant foliage of the trees ; 
The wildflowers o'er him bending, and the air 
Stroking with gentle touch his long white hair ; 
The bees around him murmuring, and the stream 
Mingling its music with his dying dream. 



204 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

O, many a morn those forest arches dim 

Have echoed back his old, majestic hymn ; 

And many an eve the breeze that stroked his hair 

Hath borne to heaven his low, confiding prayer ! 

No ostentation in such worship, paid 

In the lone silence of the deep green shade ; 

Where none could hear but God, and none could see 

But the still flowers and the o'ershadowing tree ! 

Upon those cheeks, so withered, pale, and lean, 
Some tears the woodland solitudes have seen ; 
But smiles were more familiar there, and proved 
The sweetness of a heart that served and loved. 
Now tears and smiles alike had passed away ; 
Solemn, yet beautiful, the old man lay, 
His eyes serenely gazing on the sky. 
His pale hands folded — ready thus to die. 

A vision blessed him ! Through his silver hair 
He felt the touch of fingers, soft and fair. 
And o'er him flowed the glory of an eye 
Outshining all the blueness of the sky. 
" Sweet, sainted One ! and dost thou love me yetl 
I knew, I knew thou couldst not quite forget ! 
I knew, I knew that thou wouldst come at last 
To kiss my lips and tell me all is past !" 

A glow of transport lit his closing eye ; 
He raised his arms exulting toward the sky ; 
A rosy tint like morning's earliest streak 
Flushed in celestial softness o'er his cheek. 
Then paled away ; the sunbeam too that shone 
Upon his reverend head had softly gone. 
Then stooped the vision, clasped him to her breast, 
And bore his spirit up to endless rest. 

There was no tolling of church-bells that hour ; 
No funeral banner waved from hill or tower ; 
Far in the forest loneliness away. 
Unwept of men, the ruined temple lay. 
O, what would all earth's pageantries avail 
The spirit whom the harps of angels hail ! 
The solemn dirge, the dismal knell were vain 
To him who lives and clasps his love again ! 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 205 

That night the stars were watchers of the dead ! 
That night a snowy shroud of flowers was spread 
By the soft breezes o'er his still, cold breast. 
No breaking sobs disturbed the sleeper's rest. 
O, who will miss the old Man from the earth ? 
None, save the winds and stars ; though at some hearth 
Some voice may say, " I have not seen, of late, 
The old gray Beggar standing at our gate !" 
1846. 



THE RAILROAD FLOWER. 

A LITTLE flower of lustrous blue 
Within a public rail-track grew. 
A Poet, passing, in surprise. 
Fixed on it his reproachful eyes. 

" Oh wherefore here, in dust and heat, 
Should dwell a thing so pure and sweet 1 
Thy home, thou gentle flower, should be 
Far off beneath some greenwood tree ; 
Within some soft and perfumed glade, 
All spread with dew, and cool with shade ; 
Where thou no ruder sound shouldst hear. 
Than winds and waters murmuring near ; 
Where birds should sing to thee, and bees 
Should bear thy sweets upon the breeze.^' 

The Flower with earnestness replied, 
" Where God has placed me, I abide. 
Content in some way to impart 
Pure feeling to one worldly heart ; 
Proud, if the merchant, worn with gain, 
Through me a backward glance obtain, 
A retrospect of joyous youth. 
And simple wants and artless truth ; 
Prouder, if folly in the maid 
Assume from me a thoughtful shade ; 
If Sorrow, weeping, lift her eye 
By my example, to the sky. 

" And, Poet, now one word to thee ; 
Where should thy home and labor be ? 
IS 



206 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Art thou repining in the heat, 

For some more lone and cool retreat t 

Some refuge from the careless throng, 

Where thou canst feed thy soul with song? 

Oh be content, where God requires, 

To wake thy harp, and feed thy fires ; 

And if some worldly notes float in, 

Some echoes of the ceaseless din, 

Some groans from bleeding slaves, and cries 

From infancy, that starving, dies. 

Oh deem not that thy strain, young bard. 

By these discordant notes is marred ; 

The Master Minstrel's hand through such, 

Achieves, they say, its mightiest touch ; 

And thou mayst shake the sturdiest WTOng, 

By some bold outbreak of thy song. 

Then be content, where God requires. 

To wake thy harp, and feed thy fires '." 



1847. 



The Poet stooped and kissed the 1 lower, 
Wiser and better from that hour. 



SOUNDS OF SUMMER. 

Soft winds murmuring as they pass, 
Locusts singing in the grass. 
Rivers through the meadows rushing. 
Fountains in the woodlands gushing, 
Insects humming 'mid the flowers, 
Sudden falls of sunny showers. 
Cascades leaping from the rocks, 
Tinkling bells among the flocks, 
Blackbirds whistling in the glen, 
.Songs of sturdy harvest men. 
Rustlings of the golden grain, 
Creakings of the loaded wain, 
Robins singing round the porch, 
Swallows twittering on the church, 
Wild duck plashing in the lakes. 
Croaking frogs among the brakes. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Little children, at their play, 
Shouting through the livelong day, 
Echo screaming from the hills 
Every idle sound it v^•ills, 
Flutterings of the leafy vines, 
Hollow sighings of the pines, 
Low sounds from the porous earth 
Where the insects have their birth. 
Distant boomings from the rocks. 
Far off groans of thunder shocks, 
Rushings of the sudden gale 
Loaded with the rattling hail. 
Soft subsidings of the rain 
Dripping o'er the prostrate grain. 
These, and countless sounds like these. 
Load the languid summer breeze. 
Coming from the cool blue seas ; 
These throughout the growing year, 
With their rich abounding cheer, 
Thrill the heart and flood the ear. 



207 



LEILA GREY. 

A BALLAD. 

The tassels wave upon the birch, 

The maple blushes o'er the stream. 
And through the oriel of the church, 

I see the May-moon's yellow beam. 
Oh here, upon this moss-grown wall, 

Another year, another May, 
I saw this same sweet moonlight fall 

On me and Leila Grey ! 

Cold lay her languid hand in mine. 
Pale, pale her face beside me shone ; 

" Sweet Leila Grey, as I am thine. 
Say, say that thou art all mine own !" 

She smiled — she sighed, — " Behold," she said, 

" Where from the church tower darkly thrown, 

The shadow of the cross lies spread 
By yon sepulchral stone. 



isi"; 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

" There, ere the May-moon comes again, 

The hand that presses thine will lie ; 
Before the reaper cuts the grain, 

The death-mist wUl o'ercloud my eye. 
But oh, dear Willie, do not weep, 

For I am weary, weary here ! 
And fain beneath yon cross would sleep, 

Before another year ! 

" But when another May returns, 

And through the oriel of the church. 
The golden moonlight dimly burns. 

And lights the tassels of the birch ; 
When yonder maple by the tower, 

Stands blushing like a virgin bride, 
Oh come, dear Willie, at this hour. 

And seat thee by my side !" 

Sweet Leila ! I obey thy call ; 

The May-moon lights the tasseled birch. 
And I upon the moss-grown wall, 

Am sitting near the gray old church ; 
The shadow of the cross is thrown. 

Where gleams a marble tablet now — 
'T was all the same twelve months agone — 

But Leila, where art thou ? 



UDOLLO. 



So sweet the fount of Thura sings, 

'T is said below a Maid there is. 
Who strikes a lyre of silver strings 
To spirit symphonies. 

A Youth once sought that fountain's side, 

UdoUo of the golden hair ; 
He cast a garland in the tide. 

And thus invoked the Maiden there 

" Oh, Maid of Thura, from thy halls 
Of gleaming crystal, deign to rise ! 
The golden-haired UdoUo calls, 
And yearns to gaze within thine eyes. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Fain would he touch that magic lyre 

Whose echoes he has heard above, 
And kindle every dulcet wire 

With an adoring, burning love. 
Come, Maid of Thura, from thy halls ; 

The golden-haired Udollo calls !" 

" Youth of the flaming, lucent eye, 
Youth of the lily hand and brow, 
Udollo ! I have heard thy cry, 
I rise before thee now !" 

" Oh Maid, with eyes of river-blue. 

With amber tresses dropt with gold. 
With foam-white bosom, veiled from view 

Too closely by the rainbow's fold ; 
Oh Maid of Thura ! let my hand 

Receive from thine the silver lyre ; 
Athwart thy white arm. Iris-spanned, 

I see one glittering, trembling wire ! 
That trembling wire I would invoke. 

Ere to thy touch it cease to quiver ; 
The strain by thy sweet fingers woke, 

I would prolong forever!" 

" Udollo, heed ! The mortal hand. 

That o'er that lone chord dare to stray, 
Shall light a flaming, quenchless brand 

To burn his very heart away. 
Yet take the lyre ! and I thy flowers 

Will wear upon my heart forever ; 
That heart, henceforth, through long, lone hours, 

In silent woe must bleed and quiver ! 
Enough, if thou, oh beauteous love, 

Shalt find delight in Thura's lyre ; 
Thy hand 'mid all its strings may rove. 

But oh, wake not the fatal wire !" 

The youth, whose eye with rapture glowed, 
Quick seized the lyre from Thura's hand ; 

How silent at that moment flowed 
The Fountain o'er the listening sand ! 

Upon his coal-black steed he leapt. 

Struck gayly through the ringing wood, 
18* 



209 



210 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

And, as he went, he boldly swept' 
His lyre to every passing mood. 

But hark ! a low sweet symphony, 

Rose softly from the charmed wire ; 
Unlike all mortal harmony, 

Unlike all human fire. 
Hope, eager hope — love, burning love, 

Desire, the pure, the high desire, 
And joy, and all the thoughts that move, 

Gushed wildly from that lyre ! 

And as Udollo's music died 

Amid the columned aisles away. 
That wondrous chord swelled far and wide 

Its sweet and ravishing lay ! 
Still grew, at last the trembling string ; 

Its wandering echoes back returned. 
And round the lone chord gathering. 

In visible glory burned ! 

But in Udollo's soul died not 

The echoes of the golden strain ; 
A love — a woe — he knew not what. 

Flamed up within his brain ! 
But never more his hand could wake, 

By roving 'mid its sister wires. 
The string whose symphony could shake 

His spirit to its central fires ! 

But sometimes when, all calm above, 

The moon bent o'er its gleaming strings, 
A strain of soft, entrancing love 

Waved o'er him like a seraph's wings. 
And sometimes, when the midnight gloom 

Allowed no wandering ray of light, 
A deep, low music filled the room. 

And almost flamed upon his sight. 

And for this rare and fitful strain 
He waited with intense desire ; 

There centred, in delirious pain. 
His spirit's all devouring fire. ■ 

As round one glowing point on high. 
We sometimes mark th' electric light. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 211 

From the whole bosom of the sky, 

In one bright, flaming crown unite, 
So round that inward, fixed desire. 

Concentred all UdoUo's life : 
His dark eye glowed with molten fire, 

Beneath the fevered strife. 

One night, when long the lyre haul slept, 

Udollo's passion, like a sea 
Of red-hot lava, madly swept 

His soul on to its destiny. 
In the deep blackness of the hour 

When spectres walk, he seized the lyre, 
And with a seraph's tuneful power. 

Awoke the fatal wire ! 
Oh ! Thura's Maid, where wert thou, then. 

When mortal hand presumed to strike 
The chords that only gods, not men, 

Have power to waken as they like ! 

A fire shot through Udollo's frame, 

As shoots the lightning's forked dart ; 
It lit a hot and smothered flame 

Within his deepest heart. 
He felt it in its slow, sure path 

Consume his quivering nerves away ; 
Oh could he but have checked its wrath, 

Or ceased that fearful strain to play ! 
His fingers, cleaving to the wire. 

Had lost communion with his will ; 
Within him burnt th' Immortal Fire, 

The Heart — the Life-Destroyer still ! 

Days, weeks, and months whirled on, and on ; 

No hope by day, nor rest by night ; 
Only the same wild, frantic tone 

Increasing in its woful might. 
Intensely still, like lonely stars 

Far oflf in some black crypt of sky, 
Like Sirius, or like fiery Mars, 

Glowed wild Udollo's eye. 
His form to shadowy hue and line 

Slow shrunk and faded, day by day ; 



212, PaETICAL SELECTIONS. 

He seemed like some corroded shrine^ 
Eaten by liquid fire away. 

At last, in utter wreck and woe, 

Back to the fountain's brink he crept, — 

His golden hair — now white as snow — 
Far down his bosom swept. 

Silent the clouded waters flowed ; 

The silver sand was washed away ; 
No lily on its borders blowed ; 

In lonely gloom it lay. 

" Oh Maid of Thura ! hear my cry j 
Back to thy hands thy lyre I bring ; 
Take it ! oh take it, ere I die, 

For heart and soul are perishing !" 

No form uprose, no murmur stole 
Responsive from the gloomy tide : 

Hoarsely he heard the waters roll — 
Faintly the low winds sighed. 

He sank upon the fountain's brink ; 

His hand fell listless on the wave ; 
He heard the lyre, slow bubbUng, sink. 

Deep in its liquid grave. 

The fire went out within his breast — 
The tremor of his nerves was still ; 

As peacefully he sank to rest. 
As a tired infant will. 

A radiant bow of sun and dew. 

Of blended vapors, white and red, 
Up from the fountain's bosom flew. 

And hung its beauty o'er his head. 
And from the waves a strain uprose, 

Delicious as an angel's song ; 
And this the burden at its close ; — 
" How sweet such dreamless, deep repose. 

To those who sin and suffer long !" 
1847 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 213 

THE LORD DE BEAUMONAIRE. 

Deep lies the Chapel of St. Clair, 
Amid the trees of Arnau Vale ; 
The cross upon its gothic frame, 
Glows brighter than the clouds of flame 
That o'er it, in the sunset air, 
Serenely sail. 

A road winds downward from the tower, 
Whose turrets, in the crimson flood, 
Shoot up like peaks of solid fire, 
Above the woodland's tallest spire, 
And shed a soft and radiant shower 
Around the wood. 

Down from the castle's craggy heights, 
Rides Archibald de Beaumonaire ; 
Far tower the black plumes of his crest 
Above the tallest and the best 
Of all the hundred valiant knights, 
Around him there ! 

A mellow bugle peal descends. 

And rings, reechoing through the dale ; 
Behold the escort of the bride ! 
On glittering steeds the horsemen ride ; 
Swiftly the gay procession wends 
To Arnau Vale. 

The chapel bell a joyous peal 

Rings out, the bridal train to greet ; 
They come, the glittering cavalcade, 
The haughty lord, the highborn maid ; 
Through the green yard the horses wheel 
With glancing feet. 

Behind the altar stands the priest ; 
Before it. Lord de Beaumonaire ; 
An old earl leads the graceful bride 
And leaves her at the young lord's side ; 
The bell's, the bugle's peal have ceased ; 
They kneel in prayer. 

What hears the Tjord de Beaumonaire, 
That makes his iron brain to swim ? 



214 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

The rumbling of the moss-grown mill. 
The gushing of the silvery rill , 

Are all the sounds of the solemn air 
Will waft to him. 

His thoughts aie with the summer day, 
When first, beside that sunny stream, 
He met the mill maid gathering blooms ; 
He wove them 'mid his raven plumes, 
And stole her spotless heart away. 
— How sweet the dream ! 

He hears not Lady Clara vow 
The troth that death alone can part ; 
He hears the sweet young mill maid say, 
" Oh, cast me, cast me not away !" 
A cold dew gushes from his brow, 
Blood crowds his heart f 

Slowly the cavalcade returns ; 

Weary the march up yonder height ; 
The raven on the tombstone croaks ; 
The screech-owl wails amid the oaks ; 
The tower no longer glows and burns ; 
Swift falls the night ! 

Within the cottage, pale and wan, 

The sweet young mill maid dying lay ; 
Her wavy curls of paley gold 
Adown her marble shoulders rolled ; 

She seemed like some young snowy swan 
Floating away I 

" Look forth, dear mother I seest thou him?** 
" Yes, my love, he mounts the steep ;" 
" Looks he bright, and tall, and fine ? 
Do his eyes and tresses shine ?" 
" No, his face is pale and grim ; 
He fain would weep !" 

" Poor dear Lord Archibald !" she cried; 
" I do forgive him all his wrong ; 
So tell him, dearest mother F Say 
With what deep tenderness I pray" — 
More she would have said, but died 
'Mid her swan-song. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 215 

Slowly tolled the chapel bell ; 

On its cross the moonlight shone ; 
The mill was hushed, low sang the rill ; 
The birds, ihe bees, the winds were still ; 
An aged pair walked through the dell, 
Faint and alone. 

They enter through the chapel door ; 
The priest behind the altar stands ; 
A pall the altar overspreads ; 
The taper on a pale form sheds 

A deathly light. The priest bends o'er 
With clasped hands. 

" Lord God ! forgive the sinful man 

Whose pride hath crushed this tender flower ; 
Comfort this weeping, childless pair 
Left desolate in age !" This prayer 

Was heard in heaven. Their peace began 
That very hour. 

Sir Archibald de Beaumonaire 
Sat moodily beside his bride ; 
He gazed out from his gloomy tower 
Upon the hushed and solemn hour. 

The knell had ceased ; the awestruck air 
Sobbed low, and sighed. 

" The owl is still. How dismally 
The silence o'er all earth is thrown ! 
How motionless all objects are !" 
" Not all, love. Mark yon shooting star 1" 
"It is no star!" 

"What can it be?" 
"j4. spirit flown ! " 



THE OLD BULL. 
Bright in the foreground of wood and hill, 
Close by the banks of my native rill. 
Rumbling early ere dawn of light, 
Rumbling late through the winter night. 
When ^^1 the air and the earth is still, 
Toileth ana ^ -r.neth the old red mill. 



;3,1# POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

Around its cupola, tall and white. 
The swallows wheel, in their summer flight ; 
The elm-trees wave o'er its mossy roof, 
Keeping their boughs from its touch aloof, 
Although four stories above the rill, 
Towcreth aloft the old red mill. 

Idly now in its tower is swung 
The brazen bell with its lolling tongue ; 
Above, the vane on the rod-point shows 
Which way the wind, in its changes, blows ; 
While down in the waters, deep and still, 
Is the mirrored face of the old red mill. 

The winds through its empty casements sweep, 
Filling its halls with their wailings deep ; 
Its rotten beams in the tempest sway ; 
O'er its iron rod the lightnings play ; 
Yet brave and bold, by the fair green hill, 
Like a bridegroom standeth the old red mill. 

Fair forms once moved through those spacious rooms, 
Fair hands once tended its clattering looms ; 
Those walls, with the spider's tapestry hung, 
With the music and laughter of youth have rung ; 
But now the song and the laugh are still, 
In the upper lofts of the old red mill. 

But down below, still the work goes on ; — 
In the groaning vortex the " waste" is thrown ; 
While heavily turneth the ponderous wheel, 
And the web comes forth o'er the whirling reel ; 
Good, honest service it doeth still, 
That shattered and windswept old red mill ! 

And one, who with long and patient care 
Kept guardian watch o'er the labors there, 
Who at early morning, and evening late, 
By those groaning engines was wont to wait, 
That he with comfort his home might fill, 
No longer treads through the old red mill. 

No more we see him, with silvery hair. 

Slowly ascending the broken stair 

That leads from that doorway, with rubbish strewed, 

Up the steep green bank to the village road ; 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 217 

Or, pausing awhile on the brow of the hill, 
Gaze thoughtfully down on the old red mill. 

He has passed away with his kindly smile, 
With his heart so cheerful and free from guile ; 
Sweet is his memory, sweet and dear 
To the friends that loved him while he was here ; 
And long will the deeps of our being thrill 
To the memories linked with the old red mill. 

The sire has passed, and ah ! not alone. 
Another link from our chain is gone ! 
Another, whose heart of love is cold ; 
Whose form has passed to the dust and mould ; 
No more will she cross our cottage sill, 
Or gaze with us on the old red mill. 

Then let old Ruin about it lurk ; 
Let it rumble on in its daily work. 
It will pass away as they have passed, 
For we all must tottle and fall at last ! 
Well would it be could we each fulfil 
As patient a lot as the old red mill ! 



THE CHURCH BELL. 

Merrily rings the pealing bell, 

Ding-a-ding ! dong ! 
Cheerily sweeps it through the dell, 
Up in the tree-top, down in the well, 

Ding-a-dong ! ding ! 
High through the welkin it floats and rings. 
Low in the valley, amid the springs. 
Dies away in soft murmurings ; 

Ding-a-ding ! dong ! 

Through the boughs of the graceful birch 

Ding-a-ding ! dong ! 
Gleams the door of the ivied porch. 
Leading in to the old stone church ; 

Ding-a-dong ! ding ! 
19 



218 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

There the bride with an eye as bright 
As the early star of an autumn night, 
Standeth ready her vows to plight — 
Ding-a-ding ! dong ! 

Slowly tolls the brazen bell — 

Ding ! dong ! ding ! 
Hark ! its heavy, throbbing swell 
Boometh through the hollow dell, 

Ding ! ding ! dong ! 
Now it shakes the rock and ground, 
Now it dreamily floats around. 
Dying 'mid the wood profound — 
Ding ! dong ! ding ! 

Who on yon black hearse is borne ? 

Ding ! dong ! ding ! 
Some old pilgrim, tired and worni 
Nay, the bride of last year's mom ! 

Ding ! ding ! dong ! 
Let the brazen bell deplore her, 
Let the willow tree weep o'er her — 
He she loved hath gone before her — 

Ding ! dong ! ding ! 
1847. 



VISIONS. 



Before me, on the dusky air, 

I catch a gleam of golden hair ; 

Far through the green copse I pursue ; 

'T was but a sunbeam glancing through ! 

When stretched upon the grass I lie, 
I meet the splendor of thine eye ; 
I start — I search the shadowy glen ; . 
'T was but a violet gazing in. 

Thy white hand beckons from the hedge , 

I grasp it to renew my pledge ; 

A shower of blooms falls over me ; 

'T was but the flowering hawthorn tree ! 

From the dim wood I hear thee call ; 
I fly — 't was but the waterfall ! 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 219 

Thy light step through the field doth pass ; 
I turn — 't was but the waving grass ! 

A sigh comes stealing from the grove — 
The well-known sigh of slighted love ; 
I fly to throw me at thy feet ; 
The murmuring pine is all I meet. 

Oh, did I murder thee, that thou 

Shouldst haunt me with thy pale, dead brow T 

That everywhere thy form should be 

A shadow between heaven and me ? 

Oh, worse than keenest sword or knife, 
The worm that gnawed away thy life ! 
Love fondly given, and trust betrayed, — 
In this is all thy story said. 



THE PERVADING GOD. 

When but a child, there was to me 
A greatness and a mystery 

O'er all I saw ; 
There hung about me everywhere, 
In earth, and sky, and cloud, and air, 

A brooding, penetrating awe ! 

The palest flower, that o'er the brook 
Hung trembling, had within its look 

A meaning deep ; 
A spirit seemed to interfuse 
The frailest forms, the dullest hues ; 

Each had an awful life to keep ! 

Such mysteries made me weep and pray ! 
I stole from outward life away 

To that within ; 
I asked my soul, with all its powers, 
To league itself with silent hours. 

Some answer from the deep to win. 

Too unintelligible, then, 
The voice that spake. But later, when 
My heart had grown, 



220 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

When waked by grief, and love, and faith, 
It bowed to what the Spirit saith, 

I heard, and understood the tone. 

Oh, mighty now that awful Power, 
When in some lonely, listening hour, 

It speaks to me ! 
Ask me not why my heart swells high, 
Why gushing tears o'erflow my eye — 

Is it not awful then to be 1 

To be, where all around us is ! 
Perpetual thought, perpetual bliss. 

In ebb and flow ! 
Life never pausing, and time — not ! 
In space no fixed, no central spot. 

From whence we came, or whither go! 

Yet nature the deep influx loves ! 
Through the great swelling stars it moves ; 

It lifts the sea ! 
Mountains, pervaded, breathe and speak ; 
The streams, o'erfull, in music break. 

And set the mighty Presence free ! 

O heart of mine ! Thou, too, shouldst be 
An ever full, unsounded sea 

Of joy and love ! 
Come, Spirit ! let me feel thee near ; 
Soul, enter ! Flow upon me here 

From all beneath, around, above! 
1848. 



ST. VALENTINE'S EVE. 

Eight years ago, this night, my love, 

I met thee at the village ball ; 
Oh, fair were many maidens there. 

But thou the fairest of them all ! 
Like a soft breeze along the sea. 

Thy form went waving through the dance. 
While I stood by as though some power 

Were holding me in trance. 



1 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 221 

Ere long a shade, yet scarce a shade, 

A twihght softness filled thine eye ; 
ThOu from the hall didst pass, and stand 

Gazing upon the moonlit sky. 
Drawn by some chain I could not see, 

I followed. We were there, alone, 
In the arched alcove. Near me bowed 

A red rose, newly blown. 

" Thou hast had brilliant gifts to-day," 

I said, and plucked the glowing rose ; 
" Mine is the latest and the least. 

And must not be compared with those. 
Take it as Nature's simple key. 

Whereby to unlock my hidden thought ; 
A pledge of something nobler far 

Than all the rest have brought." 

I said no more ; I could not say 

How infinitely deep my love ! 
Thy hand drew near to take my flower — 

That little hand without its glove I 
I gave the flower, I took the hand ; 

Ah 1 the moon saw thy maiden blush ! 
While all around, in earth and air, 

There was a holy hush ! — 

A hush, as if with reverent joy 

All Nature felt the thrill of love ; 
And even the rude and careless wind 

Seemed lingering, half afraid to move. 
Then by thine eye, and by thy hand 

That yielded tremblingly to mine, 
I knew thou hadst given me my heart, 

A priceless Valentine ! 

Eight years have passed ; and now, again, 

St. Valentine's sweet eve hath come ; 
Only one little year ago 

I brought thee, dearest, to my home. 
This cottage, with its ivied porch. 

Is humbler than thy father's halls ; 
But love hath turreted its roof, 

And gold-inlaid its walls ! 
19* 



223^ POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

And thou, as regal as a queen, 

Yet simple as a shepherd lass. 
Hast made the hours, on azure wings, 

Like birds of beauty fleetly pass. 
It seems a month, a week, a day. 

Scarcely an hour since thou wert mine ; 
Since first I called thee wife ; and now 

A holier name is thine ! 

This mom, to crown thy deeds of love. 

Thou brought'st a Valentine to me ; 
A son to bear a father's name, 

But in his soul to be like thee. 
Dear wife ! God bless thee for the joy 

That filled thy soft eyes brimming full ! 
God bless thee for the blissful hopes 

That overran my soul ! 

But they are gone. One day hath struck 

Its fell stroke at the root of all ; 
How swiftly o'er the sunny fields 

Black, stormy night will sometimes fell ! 
Thy gift — sweet withered bud ! — lies cold 

Upon thy bosom's pulseless snow ; 
Ye fell asleep, poor weary things, 

Full two long hours ago ! 

Sleep on, my birds, and take your rest ; 

Your faithful watcher will not quit 
His lonely vigils ; nor for thee. 

Dear wife, his Valentine forget. 
Here is the rose, my favorite gift ; 

Oh ! that I gave eight years ago 
Was red, and glowing like our love : 

Shall this night's gift be so? 

Oh no ! it needs a white, white flower, 

For love that death hath purified ! 
Here let it lie, beside the bud 

Thy bosom bore, my angel bride ! 
Wear them till morning comes. Ah, long 

Ere morn shall break again for me ! 
Thou wert the star that brought the day, 

And day departs with thee ! 



1848. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 223 

Oh, come again, some early hour, 

And wake me from this dismal dream ! 
Through the gray leaden clouds of sleep 

Let thy sweet voice in music stream ! 
Be thine the song that first shall wake 

My spirit to the eternal day ! 
Be thou the lark to herald in 

Its earliest morning ray ! 



EDA. 

Ye are my sisters, flowers : I lived with you 

In the green valleys, where we loved the sun. 
And slept beneath the falling of the dew 

That ever came to us when day was done. 
I bore intensest music in my breast. 

That none could hear ; yet stifled were not long 
Those burning lays. My soul had never rest 

Till in the nightingale I poured ray song, — 
The nightingale, who sat the livelong night 

Rising and falling on the dewy bough. 
Waking young lovers to come forth and plight 

Beneath the moon, love's passionate first vow. 

I have passed through all forms of sensate life ; 

My being filled the wave, the leaf, the tree ! 
Upward I ever rose ; no fear, nor strife, 

No sin I knew — only the Deity ! 
I skimmed along the ocean — dipped my wing 

In the soft reflex of the golden cloud — 
Rose on the vapory hues of love-warm spring — 

Burst a young insect from the chrysaline shroud — 
Sported beneath the green waves of the sea — 

Left my white shell upon the shining beach — 
Slept with the brown doe on his folded knee — 

Flooded a young child's breast — and gushed in human 
speech ! 

Among her mates young Eda stood abashed — 

Dull was her eye, — her step constrained and slow ; 

No smile was on her lip, — no feeling flashed 
From her soft cheek, paler than moonlit snow. 



224 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

The master was among them questioning. 

All laughed at Eda, for her thoughts were weak ; 
" You have no soul! you are a stupid thing !" 

The master cried, and struck her tender cheek. 

My life flowed into her. Her bosom shook, 

Her eye grew dark as midnight's and as bright ; 
Her cheek blushed warm with quickening joy, — her look 

Grew rapt and radiant with the inner light ! 
" Oh yes ! I have a soul !" she bravely said ; 

" I feel it swell my heart, and crowd my brain ; 
A flood of beauty seems to fill my head, 

And thoughts fall over me like sudden rain !" 

That soul was me. And I am Eda now. 

And I have sisters all throughout the earth. 
Ye, little flowers, are such, that lowly bow 

Before the wind, unnoted in your birth. 
And you, young leaves, that quiver on the tree, 

And you, sweet-singing, ever-wakeful birds, 
And even thou, gold-legged, buzzing bee. 

And all ye bounding flocks and musing herds. 

I left you each, my sisters, as I rose 

Upward in knowledge, feeling, life, and power. 
So ye shall rise. Our life has no repose ; 

Ye, too, shall each one have your human hour, 
And pass beyond it ! Whither, who can tell? 

Ultimately unto God I Thence came we here. 
Up the great orbit, down whose curve we fell, 

We shall ascend again into his sphere ! 
Be hopeful, little ones ! The way seems long, — 

'T is ever long, O, God ! from us to thee ! 
Yet what shall bow the infinitely strong. 

Made, as we are, to be — and be — and be ! 
1848. 



A MORNING LANDSCAPE. 

Amid the rosy fog stole in and out 
The little boat. The rower dipped his oar, 

Gleaming with liquid gold ; and all about 
The red-sailed ships went swimming from the shore. 



1848. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 225 

Against the canvass, moving to and fro, 
The dark forms of the fishermen were seen ; 

Around the prow long wreaths of golden glow 
Rippled and faded 'mid the wavy green. 

The sea-gulls wheeled around the rocky cape, 

And skimmed their long wings lightly o'er the flood ; 

The fog rose up in many a spectral shape, 
And crept away in silence o'er the wood. 

The sea from silvery white to deepest blue 
Changed 'neath the changing colors of the sky ; 

The distant lighthouse broke upon the view, 
And the long landpoint spread before the eye. 

Clear as a mirror lay the rock-bound cove ; 

Far off one blasted pine against the sky 
Lifted its scraggy form ; the crow above 

Flapped his black wings, and wound his long shrill cry. 

I paced the beach like some sleep- waking child, 

Wrapt in a dream of beauty and of awe ; 
Were they ideal visions that beguiled ? 

Was it my eye, or but my sovJ, that saw? 



NORA. 

A BALLAD. 

The clouds along the eastern sky 

Scarce caught their earliest tinge of red, 

Ere through the field of waving rye 
Young Nora to the Fountain sped ; 

A little Fountain 'mid the wood, 
Blue as the morning sky of May. 

One giant Oak beside it stood ; 
Another, moss-grown, near it lay. 

Early fair Nora came, and oft, 

To bathe her young form in its wave ; 

Ah, white as eider's down, and soft. 
The reflex that the Fountain gave ! 

Her long rich locks of shining gold 
O'er her smooth shoulders rippling fell, 



226 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

And swept in many a wavy fold 
Around her bosom's virgin swell. 

Her lips were like the budding rose, 
And like the budding rose her breath ; 

A sweeter flower did ne'er unclose 
In valley, woodland, or on heath. 

The pathway to that lonely spring 
No foot but hers had ever trod ; 

Enough her own pure heart to bring. 
And meet with Nature there, and God. 

So fourteen joyous summers passed ; 

And Nora, into girlhood grown, 
Through the green field of rye at last 

Came to the Fountain, not alone. 

With glowing cheek, and bosom warm, 

Another to its side she led ; 
To gaze upon another's form 

She o'er its crystal bowed her head. 

Alas ! with sudden start and shriek, 
With trembling lips and clasped hands, 

And deadly paleness o'er her cheek. 
Speechless poor loving Nora stands ! 

But Udolph laughed out scornfully. 

Though o'er the Fountain passed a shade, 

And from the Oak a mournful sigh 

Swept shivering through the woody glade. 

For in that pure and placid Spring 
Not Udolph's image o'er her leaned ! 

It was a hideous, leering thing — 
The image of a ghastly Fiend ! 

He laughed, and turning, met her gaze; 
" Why fearest thou, my love V said he ; 
" 'Tis but a few refracted rays — 

Thou look'st the same therein to me." 

" Come, let us quit this lying Spring ; 
It would deceive thee, Nora, dear ! 
Am I, indeed, a loathsome thing, 
That thou shouldst curse me with thy fear?" 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 227 

Young Nora, listening to his plea, 

And gazing on his beauteous face, 
Forgot the awful fantasy — 

Forgot her soul in his embrace ! 

Poor Nora ! Dark the Fountain grew. 

That ne'er to thee was dark before ; 
A hoarse wind through the old Oak blew, — 

Thou earnest to thy shrine no more ! 

So years went by. The field of rye 

Full forty harvests had supplied ; 
No footpath longer met the eye, 

And the old Oak had fallen and died. 

An aged woman, bowed and weak. 

One evening to the Fountain came ; 
Withered and dark her hollow cheek, 

Red-branded with a woman's shame : 

Over the clear, deep wave she leaned — 

Leaned feebly, yet with resolute will ; 
What saw she there ? Alas, no Fiend ; 

Something more dread and fearful still ! 

" Is thy name Nora?" cried she. " Shape ! 
Answer me ! art thou she ? O where 
The golden locks that used to escape 
Over her shoulders, round and fairl 

" Oh, where the snowy, dimpled arm, 
The rosy lip, the spotless breast. 
The young affections, deep and calm. 
The heart's repose, the spirit's restl 

" Never again shall Nora shine 

Serene and star-like from thy wave ; 
But aged Sin her shade incline 
Athwart thy bosom to the grave. 

" Yet let me bathe this brow once more ; 
O God ! what sorrow, yet what peace ! 
Sure if life's conflict e'er be o'er 
Here by thy stillness it shall cease ! ' 

Oh, magic Spring ! one touch of thine, 
One soft kiss of thy holy wave. 



228 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

One unction, blessed and benign, 
New freshness to her being gave ! 

Not young again, not pure, nor gay. 
But peaceful, hopeful, and resigned, 

Nora, the aged, day by day. 

On thy soft breast her form reclined. 

And day by day her hollow eye 

Grew brighter with an inward light ; 

Strength nerved her frame, and Shame's red dye 
Changed into Faith's celestial white. 

So time passed on — till from a mount 
One summer's night a watchman's eye 

Discerned a white mist from the fount 
Float up, and cross the moonlit sky. 

It spread its silvery wings, and caught 
The glories of the full-orbed moon ; 

The Pleiades a garland wrought 
Around its head. It vanished soon. 

Next morn the watchman sought the Spring 

In vain ; a greener circle lay 
Where once its waters slept ; a ring 

Of willows sparkled with its spray. 

But ne'er a fountain gushed again 
Beside that fallen oak. The woods 

Still whisper Nora's name. The lane 
Writes it in leaves and buds. 

The birds repeat it in their songs ; 

In the soft brooklet's voice it flows ; 
Echo the haunting sound prolongs ; 
But Nora with the Fountain rose. 
1848. 



DEVOTION. 



To Thee, O God, adoringly, 
We lift our reverent eyes — 

For thou hast made the glorious earth, 
And filled the awful skies. 



1848. 



1848. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 229 

To Thee submissively we look ; 

For all we have is thine ; 
Most gratefully we would receive, 

Most cheerfully resign. 

And ever most entreatingly, 

O God, we turn to thee, 
In humble trust for all we are. 

And all we hope to be. 



CONTEMPLATION. 

Her thoughts are of the Beautiful. Her soul 
Dwells with the shapes and colors of the Fair. 
Flowers that spring up in rocky clefts and droop 
Mirrored above the waters, stars hung high 
In the blue dome of night, like urns of gold 
O'erflowing all the earth, foam-crested waves 
That dance to inborn melodies, light, air, 
Sunshine and rainbows, hills and dells of green. 
Far off sweet glens among the mountain streams, 
And woods o'ercrowded with abundant growth 
Of moss, and vines, and lichen — dreams like these 
Fill up the happy soul within whose depths 
Hard care has never entered, and from these, 
How easy, step by step, to rise from earth 
Into the region of the Power whose will 
Created all this Beauty, and bestowed 
On us the higher grace of Thought and Taste 
To understand and feel it. Surely there 
Her soul hath entered now, and is entranced. 



THE ADVENTURE. 



'T WAS a day in the middle of spring, Lucy, 

Mellow and hazy and warm ; 
The sky wore the thin silver grayness 

That hangs on the front of the storm. 
20 



230 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 

I sought with my rod and my angle 

The cove where the willow-trees grew ; 

They hung o'er the stillest of waters, 
And deepened the densest of blue. 

And when a fresh sweep of the wind , Lucy, 

The long, tasselled boughs blew aside, 
I could see the old mill in its ruins, 

Half standing, half sunk in the tide. 
The moss on its roof was then greenest, 

Well freshened by sunshine and shower, 
And soft amber vapor rose upward 

And crept round its ivy-wreathed tower. 

As I sat on the roots of the willows 

Where mosscups and violets grew. 
The scent of the gold-dusted bloom, Lucy, 

Seemed thrilling my whole being through. 
The red-spotted trout that came gliding 

And darting alert through the cove. 
Scarce woke my rapt soul from the dream, Lucy, 

That Nature and Feeling had wove. 

But a glance where beside the old ruin 

The mill-stone lay hid in the grass, 
With a tuft growing up through the centre, 

And flowers nodding out from the mass — 
One glance at a bright golden head, Lucy, 

That hung like a flower 'mid the green, 
Dispelled all the dreams that had bound me, 

And brought me once more to the scene. 

I flew as though wings had burst from me ; 

I startled the dove from her rest 
She fled to the shade of the ruin, 

The hawk followed up to the nest. 
A flume whence the wheel had been taken, 

Stood open behind the old mill ; 
'T was now more than half filled with water, 

Black, slimy, and dismally chill. 

I shuddered with horror and anguish : 
Alas ! she had rushed to its brink ; 

She %tood on the old rotten cross-beam — 
One step, it would totter and sink ; 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 231 

I shrieked, " Oh forbear ! oh forbear, Lucy!" 

My cries but alarmed her the more ; 
She sprang to the point that was frailest — 

One crash, and the horror was o'er ! 

The horror, but not the endeavor ; 

I rushed with one bound to her side ; 
I saw her pale face and gold tresses, — 

A lily afloat on the tide. 
She reached her white arms toward my neck, Lucy, 

I knelt, and with both arms outspread 
I drew the wet dove to my bosom, 

Pale, fainting, and seemingly dead. 

I wrapped her about with my arms, Lucy, 

I warmed her cold lips with my own ; 
I felt that at least for this moment 

Her being was mine — mine alone. 
Nor did she that claim disallow, Lucy, 

When lifting her heavenly eyes. 
She gazed on my face with a gladness 

That fully o'erpowered her surprbe. 

I drew her then closer than ever — 

Ah, Lucy, what meaneth that tear? 
Dost thou, then, the dear scene remember? 

Then come and react it all here. 
Say now, as thou then saidst, " I love thee !" 

Though twenty long years have gone by 
Since first I dared gather that meaning 

From all the kind looks of thine eye. 

Ah ! never less sweet would those words be, 

Though we are as " old as the hills," 
For love that is true in its budding 

The winter of time never kills. 
Nay, rather old age does but mellow 

And sweeten the fruit of true love ; 
For however storms beat around it. 

The sun always shines from above I 



1848. 



232 POETICAL SELECTIONS. 



THE SHADOW-CHILD. 

Whence came this little phantom 

That flits about my room — 
That 's here from early morning 

Until the twilight gloom ? 
Forever dancing, dancing, 

She haunts the wall and floor, 
And frolics in the sunshine 

Around the open door. 

The ceiling by the table 

She makes her choice retreat, 
For there a little human-girl 

Is wont to have her seat. 
They take a dance together — 

A crazy little jig ; 
And sure two baby witches 

Ne'er run so wild a rig I 

They pat their hands together 

With frantic jumps and springs, 
Until you almost fancy 

You catch the gleam of wings. 
Shrill shrieks the human-baby 

In the madness of delight, 
And back return loud echoes 

From the little shadow sprite. 

At morning by my bedside. 

When first the birdies sing, 
Up starts the little phgjitom 

With a merry laugh and spring. 
She woos me from my pillow 

With her little coaxing arms • 
I go where'er she beckons — 

A victim to her charms. 

At night I still am haunted 
By glimpses of her face ; 

Her features on my pillow 
By moonlight I can trace. 



1848. 



POETICAL SELECTIONS. 233 

Whence came this shadow-baby 

That haunts my heart and home ? 
What kindly hand hath sent her, 

And wherefore hath she come ? 

Long be her dancing image 

Our guest by night and day, 
For lonely were our dwelling 

If she were now away. 
Far happier hath our home been, 

More blest than e'er before, 
Since first that little shadow 

Came gliding through our door. 



20* 



TKANSLATIONS. 



THE REVENGE OF THE FLOWERS. 

FROM FREILIGRATH. 

On her soft and snow-white pillow 
Lies the maiden, sleep-enchanted ; 

Deeply sunk, her long brown lashes 
O'er her crimson cheek are slanted. 

On the toilet table glistening, 

Stands a flower-vase, richly graven ; 

la this vase are glittering blossoms. 
Scented with the dews of even. 

Brooding, has the sultry dampness 
All the chamber-lawn pervaded ; 

Fearful of the summer coolness, 
Windows all are closed and shaded. 

Deep and dead the silence reigneth ; 

Sudden, hark ! a low, soft whisper ! 
In the flowers, among the branches, 

Breathes it like a fairy's vesper. 

From the flower-vase, rising slowly, 
Many a vapory shape appeareth ; 

Mist-wreaths form their subtle raiment, 
Each a crown and shield upreareth. 

From the Rose's purple bosom 

Rises now a slender maiden. 
And her soft locks, floating loosely. 

Are with pearls, like dew-drops, laden ! 

From the helmet of the Monk's Hood, 
'Mid its dark green foliage beaming, 



II 



TRANSLATIONS. 

Stalks a knight of valiant courage, 
Sword and helmet brightly gleaming. 

O'er his casque a heron's feather 

Nods its silvery hues beclouded. 
From the Lily floats a maiden, 

In a veil of goss'mer shrouded. 

From the Turban-flovper upstarting, 
Strides a grim Moor, proud, puissant ; 

Brightly on his dark green turban 
Glows the half-moon's golden crescent. 

Glittering from the Crown Imperial, 
Boldly forth an emperor stalketh ; 

Following from the deep blue Iris, 
Lo, his sword-armed hunter walketh. 

From the leaves of the Narcissus 
Steals a youth, with eyes of sadness, 

Mounts the bed, one kiss imprinting 
On the maiden's lips in madness. 

Now the silent bed encircling. 

Where the shades of night are deeper. 

Turn they, swing they, softly singing. 
This sad chorus to the sleeper : 

" Maiden ! maiden ! thou hast cruelly 
Torn us from the things we cherish. 
That within this costly chalice. 
We may wither, fade, and perish I 

" Oh we rested there so happy, 

On the bright earth's mother-bosom ! 
Where, through greenest branches pouring, 
Sunbeams waked us into blossom ! 

" There the vernal winds refreshed us. 
To and fro our frail stalks bending ; — 
There at night like elves we sported, 
From our house of leaves ascending. 

" Clear fell round us rain and dew-drops ; 
Now we float in turbid water ; 
We must die : yet ere we perish. 
Vengeance seize thee, Beauty's daughter!" 



235 



236 TKANSLATIONS. 



Hushed the song ; again the spirit* 
Bend around the fair one sleeping ; 

Through the old dim, hollow silence, 
Hark ! again the murmur creeping. 

Such a rustling ! such a whispering ! 

How the maiden's cheeks are glowing ! 
How the spirits breathe upon them ! 

How the vapor now is flowing ! 

Now the sunshine greets the chamber ; 

See, the ghosts withdraw their forces ; 
Cold upon her soft white pillow 

Sleeps the loveliest of corses I 

She, herself a withered floweret. 

With her crimson blush still cherished, 

Sleeps beside her withered sisters ; — 
By the breath of flowers she perished ! 



THE YOUTH AND THE MILL-STREAM. 

FROM GOETHE. 
YOUTH. 

Where glidest thou, clear little stream, 

So brightly ? 
Thou hastenest with a joyous gleam 

Down lightly ; 
What seekest thou within the vale ! 
Hear me this once, and tell thy tale. 

STREAM. 

I was a little running brook, 

So sparkling ! 
My sunny waves they captive took ; 

Now darkling, 
I through the dyke, beneath the mill. 
Flow swift and full, and never still. 

YOUTH. 

Thou hastenest with a gentle will 
To duty. 



i 



TRANSLATIONS. 237 

And know'st not how my young veins thrill 

To beauty ! 
Oh, does the pretty mill-maid look 
Oft gently on thee, little brook ? 

STREAM. 

She lifts at morning's rosy break 

The shutter ; 
And comes to bathe breast, lip and cheek 

In water ; 
From her soft bosom, full and white, 
I rise in vapor warm and bright. 

YOUTH. 

If she can make the watery flood 

Her lover, 
Oh, how its peace shall flesh and blood 

Recover 1 
If once man's path by her be crost, 
His rest is gone, his peace is lost. 

STREAM. 

Then rush I from the wheel below 

In thunder ; 
And all the dashing ladles go 

Down under ! 
The water has a marvellous might 
While this fair maiden toils in sight. 

YOUTH. 

Thou poor one ! shareth not thy breast 

My passion 1 
She smiles on thee, and says in jest, 

Now dash on ! 
Yet with a sweet love-glance delays 
Thy waters ever 'neath her gaze. 

STREAM. 

From hence I find, where'er I flow, 

All shadow ! 
I murmur, murmur slowly through 

The meadow ; 
And could my own will be my guide, 
How soon would I returning glide. 



g38 TRANSLATIONS. 

YOUTH. 

I go, thou sharer of my love 

And sadness ! 
I yet, perchance, may hear thee move 

In gladness. 
Go, tell her now, and every day, 
What still I wish, and hope, and pray ! 



TO THE ESTRANGED. 

FROM GOETHE. 

And have I lost thee, then, forever? 

Art thou, oh dear one, from me flown? 
In my accustomed ear rings ever 

Thine every word, and every tone. 

And as the traveller's gaze at morning 
In vain far through the sky upsprings, 

When, hidden in the deep blue dawning, 
High over him the sky-lark sings ; 

So, anxiously, my own glance, flying, 

Scans field, and copse, and wood and tree ; 

To thee, too, all my songs are crying, 
Oh, come, beloved, back to me ! 



SPRING'S ORACLE, OR THE CUCKOO. 

FROM GOETHE. 

Thou prophetic minstrel, thou ! 
Singer 'mid the blossoming bough ! 
In this fairest of the year. 
Thou the prayers of lovers hear ! 
If sweet hope our hearts may swell. 
Hear us, dearest bird, and tell ; 
With thy cuckoo, cuckoo, coo, 
Evermore cuckoo, cuckoo. 

Listen thou ! A loving pair 
Fain their bridal chain would wear ; 
And they now are in their youth, 
Full of virtue, full of truth. 



TRANSLATIONS. 2t39 

Has not yet arrived the day ? 

Say, how long must we delay 1 

Hark, cuckoo ! Hark, cuckoo ! 

Hush, hush, dear bird ! add nought thereto ! 

Ere that crowning day appears. 

We must wait two patient years ! 

But, when we shall share one home. 

Will the '■'■ pa-pa-fapas^^ come ? 

Know that thou wilt please us well. 

If thou many shalt foretell. 

One, cuckoo ! two, cuckoo ! 

More, yet more ! Cuckoo, cuckoo, coo ! 

Ah ! and have we counted right ^ 

'Tis not half a dozen, quite. 

If we thank thee, wilt thou tell 

How long we on earth shall dwell ? 

We our wishes will not hide ; 

Gladly would we long abide. 

Coo, cuckoo, coo, cuckoo. 

Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo. 

Life is one great holiday. 
If we grieve it not away. 
If together it be passed. 
Say, oh say, shall true love lastT 
Oh ! if that can e'er be o'er. 
Nought will then be lovely more ! 
Coo, cuckoo, coo, cuckoo. 
Coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo, coo. 
(By grace, ad infinitum.) 



VINETA. 

FROM WILHELM MlJLLER. 

From the ocean's deep and dark foundations. 
Faint and dull the bells of evening ring, 

And to us mysterious revelations 

Of the grand old wonder-city* bring. 

* Mahahalipur, or the city of Baly, was swallowed up by the sea. Ages 
after, it is said, its towers and battlements were seen above the surface ; and 
being plated with copper, ttiey shone with dazzling splendor in the beams 



340 TRANSLATIONS. 

Where the green sea in its caverns darkles, 
Still the sunken battlements remain, 

Gleaming o'er the waves, like golden sparkles 
On the reflex of a mirror seen. 

There the seaman, who the enchanting glitter 
Once at sunset on the red waves met, 

'Mid the cliffs retained by some strange fetter, 
Tracks the self-same round of waters yet ! 

From my heart's own deep and dark foundations, 
Faint and dull, like bells, low voices ring ; 

Ah, to me what wondrous revelations 
Of its early perished love they bring ! 

Where the deep sea of my spirit darkles. 
Ruins of that beauteous world remain ; 

Like the glow of heaven's bright, golden sparkles 
In the mirror of my dreams oft seen ! 

Then I fain would plunge the great deep under ; 

Sunk 'neatli the reflex gladly would I be ! 
To that olden city, world of wonder, 

Hark, the voice of angels calling me ! 



THE MINSTREL'S CURSE. 

FROM UHLAND. 

There stood in olden ages a tower so high and grand. 
It shone far o'er the valleys to the blue sea's rocky strand ; 
Around it sprang fresh fountains, by glittering rainbows crowned. 
And gardens, rich in blossoms, like garlands spanned them round. 

There sat a haughty monarch, in land and conquests rich ; 
Pale sat he on his throne, like a statue in a niche ; 
All that he thought was terror, all that he looked was rage. 
His words were fearful scourges, and blood filled every page ! 

Once went to this grand castle a noble minstrel pair ; 
One shone with golden ringlets, and one with silvery hair ; 

of the morning and evening sun. There is a magnificent description of this 
submarine city, in Southey's " Curse of Kehama" — both as it appeared 
above and beneath the sea. — Translator. 



TRANSLATIONS. 241 

The old gray-headed harper a gallant steed bestrode, 

And on the flank, well-mounted, his blooming comrade rode. 

The elder to the younger said, " Be ready now, my son ! 
Our deepest airs remember, — 'cord to the fullest tone ! 
In songs of love and sorrow we '11 blend our mightiest art, 
For it must be our aim to-day to move the king's stern heart !" 

Already stand the minstrels in the pillared hall of pride, 
Where on the throne are seated the monarch and his bride ; 
The king fearfully splendid, like the bloody northern lights, 
The queen as sweet and gentle as the moon on summer nights. 

Then struck the aged minstrel his harp with hand so skilled. 
That rich and ever richer on the ear its music swelled ; 
And now, in heavenly sweetness, the young man's strains begin, 
While like a dull ghost-chorus, the old man's song flows in. 

They sing of spring and friendship, of the blissful golden time. 
Of freedom and man's dignity, of truth and faith sublime ; 
They sing of all the sweetness that trembles through man's breast. 
Of all the scorn that maddens him, and breaks his spirit's rest. 

The band of circling courtiers forgot each sneering word. 
The king's old valiant warriors bowed low their hearts to God ; 
The queen, dissolved in sorrow, and by thrilling joy opprest. 
Threw, smiling, toward the minstrels the rose from her white breast. 

" You have bewitched my people, will you now seduce my bride?" 
Raved the king, his whole frame shaking in his fury and his pride ; 
He hurled his sword, that gleaming, through the young man's bosom 

swept. 
Whence, in place of golden music, the crimson blood outleapt. 

While from this frightful tumult the listening crowd retired. 
The golden-haired young minstrel in his master's arms expired. 
Then he wrapt him in his mantle, and sat him on the steed. 
And from the stately castle set forth in silent speed. 

Yet at the high gate halting, his harp the old man grasped ; 
It was the prize of all harps that ever minstrel clasped ; 
Against a marble column he dashed it in his wrath. 
And sent his curses fearfully through hall and garden-path. 

" Woe be to thee, proud castle ! No sweet sounds e'er again 
Shall ring along thine arches, of harp or minstrel strain ; 
21 



242 . TRANSLATIONS. 

But groans, and creeping slave-steps that dread the tyrant's frown, 
Until to mould and ruins the avenger tread thee down ! 

" Woe be to you, ye gardens, in the sweet, soft light of May ! 
Here, look on this grim visage, this pale, disfigured clay ! 
That henceforth ye may wither, your gushing founts run dry, 
And stones and broken columns o'er all your beauty lie ! 

" "Woe be to thee, thou murderer ! cursed of the minstrel powers ! 
In vain are all thy conquests and bloody wreaths of flowers ; 
Thy name shall be forgotten — in night eternal veiled, 
Or like a rattling death-gasp, in empty air exhaled !" 

The old man hath pronounced it, — to heaven the curse hath flown ; 
The walls lie low and crumbling, the halls are overthrown ; 
To tell its vanished splendor but one column now remains. 
And that, already shattered, will soon o'erstrew the plains ! 

In place of fragrant gardens lie waste and dreary lands ; — 
No tree throws there its shadow, no fount o'erflows the sands ; 
No songs, no books of heroes the monarch's deeds rehearse ; 
Down-trodden and forgotten, — that is the Minstrel's Curse ! 



THE GRAVE OF THE PERSIAN POET. 

FROM MILLEVOYE. 

" Thy voice, Zaida, is the voice of the breeze ; 

All my soul on its sweetness is wafted along : 
But say, what bold lyre could from Paradise seize 

The notes that enliven thy beautiful song 1 

" O ! sure, ne'er the roses that Poesy loves. 

Those treasures with fragrance and beauty replete. 

Embalm with such perfumes bright Asia's groves ; 
Not even the kiss of thy lips were so sweet '" 

" This hymn, noble sultan, the great Benam&r 
Evoked from the lyre with his magical hand ; 

A poet who showed us the dawning afar 
Of a day without end in a holier land. 

" His lost songs have yet no recompense found ; 

Toward the drear sands of Iran he wandered astray, 
To tune his wild lyre to the hurricane's sound ; 

One star, his young daughter, to brighten his way !" 



TRANSLATIONS. 243 

'* Brave Emir ! go mount thee my gallant black steed ; 

Her feet are as light as a mountain bird's wing ; 
Fly, fly to the deserts ! outstrip the wind's speed ! 

And give Benamar this diamond ring. 

" Now Night and thy Darkness ! witness my words ; 

Such jewels and honors the poet shall see, 
That the §tars roaming over the heavens in herds, 

Less numerous are than his treasures shall be ! 

" Perchance, he may lead his sweet child on his arm 

To fill our saloons with harmonious song ! 
From the eyes that admire her this isolate Palm 

On the sands of the desert hath flourished too long !" 

Lightly urging the courser, the Emir obeyed ; 

He shot o'er the plains like an arrow in flight ; 
On his way, a young stranger, a beautiful maid, 

Pale and charming, appeared toward the fall of the night 

" O Traveller! Thou who, unsheltered and far, 

Through the drear sands of Iran art wand'ring alone, 

What seekest thou here ?" " I seek Benamar, 
The Pride of the Sultan, the Bard of the throne !" 

" O Traveller ! great Benamar was my sire ; 

No longer he liveth to suffer and weep, 
'Neath those tall cypress trees he lies clasping his lyre, 

And near him, I too in the desert shall sleep." 

" Flower of Beauty I thy charms will revive in the light ; 

Come, let us this eve from the desert depart ; 
The star of prosperity, changelessly bright, 

Henceforth shall illumine thy desolate heart," 

" Thou seest the grave where sad vigils I keep ; 

So closed is my heart from the joy of the sky ; 
My wealth was my father ; he heth asleep ; 

Poor Benamar lived, poor his daughter will die !" 

And sinking, she clasped to her sorrowing breast 
The soil of that grave she was yearning to share ; 

While the boughs of the cypress, by zephyrs caressed. 
Commingled their shade with the black of her hair. 

With a faltering voice, once again to her lute 

The notes of a beautiful anthem were given ; 
It died from her lips, and the chords became mute ; 

She began it on earth to complete it in heaven ! 



241 TRANSLATIONS. 

THE TOMB AND THE ROSE. 

FROM VICTOR HUGO. 

The Tomb said to the Rose : 

" With the tears the morning throws 

O'er thee, what doest thou?" 
The Rose said to the Tomb : 
*' With him who to thy gloom 

Goes down, what doest thou V 

The Rose said : " Mournful Tomb, 
With these tear-drops I perfume. 

Amber sweet, the dusky brake." 
The Tomb said: " Rose, each soul 
That comes unto my goal, 

I a heavenly angel make." 



THE PRISONER OF WAR. 

FROM BERANGER. 

Marie, I pray thee work no more I 

The lover's star is in the skies, — 
My mother, on a foreign shore 
A village youth now captive lies. 
Taken afar upon the sea, 
He waiteth still his ransom day. 
Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
To help the prisoner, far away ; 

Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
Spin for the prisoner, far away. 

My child, I light my lamp for thee ; 

Ah ! why these tears that fill thine eyes? ■ 
Mother, he pines in misery ; 

His foes insult him, where he lies. 
A child , still Adrien cared for me ; 
He made our fireside bright and gay. 
Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
To help the prisoner, far away ; 

Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
Spin for the prisoner, far away. 



TRANSLATIONS. 

My child, I too for him would spin ; 

'^ut I am old, so very old ! — 
Oh send to him what I shall win, — 
Oh send my little hoard of gold ! 
I will not at Rose' bridal be — 
God ! I hear the fiddler play ! 
Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
To help the prisoner, far away ; 

Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
Spin for the prisoner, far away. 

Draw near the fire, my dearest one ! 

The night has come to chill our bones. — 
Mother, they tell me Adrien 

In the damp floating dungeons groans. 
They smite the pale hand cruelly 
That he on their coarse bread would lay. 
Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
To help the prisoner, far away ; 

Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
Spin for the prisoner, far away. 

My daughter, I have late had dreams, 
In which thou wert his happy wife. 
Before the thirtieth morning beams, 
'T will all be real in thy life. — 
What ! The budding grass will see 
His return for whom we pray ! 

Spin, spin, poor Marie. 
" To help the prisoner, far away ; 
Spin, spin, poor Marie, 
Spin for the prisoner, far away. 



245 



THE OLD VAGABOND. 

FROM BERANGER. 

Here in this ditch, I '11 end life's day ; 

I die infirm, and old, and worn ; 
" He 's drunk !" the passers-by will say ; 

'T is well ; they will not need to mourn. 
21*= 



246 TRANSLATIONS. 

Some turn their heads ; a few, at least ; 

From others a few sous are thrown ; * 
Run quickly, hasten to the feast ! — 
Old vagabond, 

Sure I can die alone. 

Yes, here I perish of old age, 

For one of hunger never dies ; 
I hoped th' asylum would assuage, 

At least, my dying agonies. 
But every ward is full, and worse. 

So many people are forlorn ! 
The street, alas, was my first nurse. 
Old vagabond, 

I '11 die where I was born. 

To laborers I in youth applied ; 

Teach me, I said, some honest trade ; 
" Scarce can we for ourselves provide ; 

Go beg !" was the reply they made. 
*' Work !" said the rich. Some bones to gnaw 

I had from you ; I will allow ; 
'Tis true, I slept upon your straw. 
Old vagabond, 

I will not curse you now. 

I could have stolen, I, poor wretch ; 

But no ; I rather chose to be 
A beggar ; or, at most, to catch 

An apple from the wayside tree. 
A score of times on me they drew 

The prison bolts, by king's decree ; 
They stole the only wealth I knew ; 
Old vagabond. 

The sun 's at least, for me. 

A country — has the poor man one 1 

For me, what have your grain and wine, 
Your industry and glory done 1 

Your throngs of orators divine 1 
Ah, when the armies of the foe 

Were fattening on your open lands, 
How like a fool my tears did flow ! 
Old vagabond, 

They fed me from their hands. 



TRANSLATIONS. J47 



Men, will you crush me, like a wonn, 

Made but to injure and corrode 1 
Oh, rather you my life should form 

To labor for the general good. 
When sheltered from the adverse wind, 

The worm into the ant will grow ; 
I would have cherished all mankind. 
Old vagabond ! 

Alas ! I die your foe. 



THE WREATH. 

FROM UHLAND. 

A LITTLE maiden from the earth 
Did many a little blossom pull ; 

Then came there from the green wood forth, 
A lady, wondrous beautiful. 

She met the maiden with a smile ; 

She twined a wreath around her hair ; 
*' It blooms not yet, but will erewhile ; 

Oh, wear it ever there ! ' ' 

And when the little maiden grew, 

And roamed the moon and stars beneath. 

And wept sweet tear-drops, tender, true. 
Then buds were on the wreath. 

And when her bridegroom to her heart 
With tender love she safely drew, 

The buds with gladness burst apart, 
And into blossoms grew. 

And soon a sweet and laughing child 

Her arms did tenderly enfold ; 
Then mid the dark green foliage smiled 

A fruit of richest gold. 

And when her loved ones buried were. 
And she left lonely in her grief, 

Then waved around her loose strewn hair 
A faded autumn leaf. 



248- TRANSLATIONS. 



Soon lay she also faded there. 

Yet still the precious wreath she wore. 
Which, wonderful beyond compare. 

Both fruit and blossoms bore. 



THE NUN. 

FROM UHLAND. 



Through the still cloister garden 
Went a maiden pale and young, 

Lit by the moon's dim flashes ; 
And love's soft tear-drops hung 

Upon her silken lashes. 

"Oh, well for me, my true love 

Is in the dusk laid low ; 
I dare again to love him ; 

He is an angel now ! 
An angel, I dare love him." 

The image of the Virgin 

She reached with trembling feet ^ 
It stood in the' soft glimmer ; 

Its smiles so mother-sweet, 
For loving did not blame her. 

Sunk at its feet, upgazing, 

She in heavenly peace reposed, 

Till Death, the Love-restorer, 
Her eyelids softly closed : 

Her veil waved downward o'er her. 



TO DEATH. 

FROM UHLAND. 



Thou who silently at evening, 

Wanderest through earth's flowery lea. 
Blossoms bright and golden fruitage 

Gathering, which God gives to thee ; 



TRANSLATIONS. S49' 

Spare, oh Death ! what soft enraptured, 

CHnging on Life's bosom lies, 

Gazing in its mother's eyes, 
By her sweet songs gently captured. 

Leave the earth her sons of pleasure, — 

They whose strength in trial flies ; 
That a joyous, gladsome echo, 

Fleetly from the dead woods rise ! 
Quench thou not the pure sun-splendor 

Of the spirit of the wise ; 

Which the young moon's dance supplies, 
With a guidance meek and tender. 

Silently, on clouds of silver, 

Go when starlight reappears, 
Where an old man at his altar. 

Every evening kneels in tears. 
Breathe to him names dear and tender ; 

To their circle bear him up. 

Where no bitter, burning drop 
Dims the eye's eternal splendor. 

And the Youth, in whom Love wakens 

Yearnings hot and unappeased, 
Who his open arms outstretches, 

By a tameless impulse seized : 
When to heaven's rich starry brightness 

He uplooks with passion warm. 

Seize him kindly, arm in arm. 
Bear him to the blue remoteness ! 

Where, 'mid bridal sounds and glories, 

Breathing love, a form draws near. 
Which, before, in spirit only 

Breathed soft greetings in his ear ; 
Where the soul has May-day ever 

And again, with new life young, 

Dwells in everlasting song, 
And in ecstasy forever ! 



250 TRANSLATIONS. 

TO THE CHILD OF A POET. 

FROM UHLAND. 

Thou Poet-child, right welcome be 
Within the golden door of being ' 

Most fitly chosen gifts for thee 
Are poem and prophetic saying. 

In mighty times dost thou awake, 
In earnest days and full of wonder ; 

When o'er thy infant rest doth break 
A holy warfare's solemn thunder. 

But thou art happy, sleeping in 

Hereditary poet-dreamings 
Of azure skies, and woodlands green, 

Of trees, and flowers, and starlight gleamings ! 

Meanwhile the storm has met its doom ; 

The clouds that dimmed the age have broken ; 
Fitly dost thou, a virgin, bloom, 

Love's coming empire to betoken ! 

Whait to thy Father's songs was given 
As merely prophet Faith's foreseeing, 

Shall from the happy fields of heaven, 
As Life, rich Life, o'erflow thy being. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 



ANNETTE LEE. 



It was the celebration of the holy eucharist. The church 
members gathered reverently around the sacred table, one by 
one, as they would have approached the sanctuary of the 
dead. The aged deacon walked slowly up to the side of his 
young pastor, and feebly to his own side crept his faithful 
wife. It was an aged company. There was not one of all 
that holy band, that might not have numbered threescore 
years, save the youthful pastor, and one young girl, who had 
stolen to the foot of the table with downcast eyes and silent 
step, a beautiful representative of the lowly Mary, sitting at 
Jesus' feet. Never did a sweeter or holier flower offer its 
incense at the shrine of heaven. Scarce sixteen years had 
cast their sunshine on her pathway ; yet there she stood, in 
communion with aged saints, consecrating the youthful affec- 
tions of her heart to the service of her holy Master. Youth, 
purity, and beauty, offering themselves at the altar of heaven ! 
^yhat a lovely example was she to the young sisterhood of 
Christians ! What a beautiful model for the study of the 
young daughters of Zion ! 

For a week she had watched ceaselessly at the bedside of 
her sick mother ; and it Avas only for the blessed privilege 
of partaking of the holy supper, that she had now for the first 
time left her. No wonder, then, that her cheek was pale, and 
her eyes sad with tears. Once, and once only, did she raise 
them, as she approached the table of the sacrament. It was 
to glance at the vacant place beside her own — the place which 
her mother had occupied for years. Sadly again, the long, 



2^ PliOSE SELECTIONS, 

silken lashes drooped over her blue eyes, as she folded her 
dimpled hands upon her heart, and bowed her head at the 
blessing of the sacred feast. A sigh rose from every bosom in 
the aged circle, as the meek young creature stood so sadly 
before them — she who was the lamb of their passover — the 
sweet rainbow that shed brightness over their holy vineyard. 
They felt that she was soon to be an orphan ; that the fond 
mother who had cherished her, as she would have cherished 
a tropical flower, who had led her from her earliest years to 
the tabernacle of her Lord, and opened her young mind to the 
light of the gospel, was to be taken shortly to her grave. 
And where, thought they, will the young dove find a shelter ? 
Who will be to her a mother, and watch over her with the 
untiring solicitude of her own beloved parent ? 

Edward Marion, the young clergyman who had that day 
ministered to them for the first time, was as much startled at 
the appearance of the maiden, as though a vision of heaven 
had burst upon his sight. Could this be Annette Lee, the 
lady whom Deacon Gray had pictured forth to him as a pattern 
Christian — an exact model of the good Dorcas of Scripture 
celebrity ? Surely, it was not the Annette Lee of his imagi- 
nation ; the tall, dark, sober woman of some twenty-five or 
thirty years of age, that had been shadowed forth by his 
fancy, as a just personification of the sober picture drawn by 
the good deacon, of her goodness, and virtue, and unostenta- 
tious piety. If he had but added the terms youth and beauty, 
the young minister might have formed a more perfect concep- 
tion. But of these Deacon Gray was altogether unmindful; 
they were charms lost to him, in the preferment of her nobler 
qualifications. He thought only of her innocence, fidelity, 
and Christian deportment, and therefore of these only did he 
speak. 

Yet the image which Marion had formed was a natural 
one ; one which experience (alas ! that this experience should 
be so universal) had taught him to be correct, as embodying 
the spirit and principles of Christianity in a form distinct from 
youth and beauty ; and as arraying religion in garments of 
stem plainness and sanctimonious simplicity. But for once, 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 253 

he found religion coalesced with extreme youth and exquisite 
beauty ; for once, he found the spirit of true piety dwelling in 
the heart of a beautiful young maiden. What a glorious, 
what a holy dwelling-place I How fit for the residence of 
faithful and devoted piety ! And yet how seldom is it made 
its home ; how seldom does it preside, the divinity — the guar- 
dian spirit of the youthful affections .' Maidens, sisters, open 
your hearts, and bid it welcome to an everlasting habitation. 
Its office is to suppress exuberant gayety, to subdue pride and 
vanity, and to guard the sweet affections of our youth from 
every vile obtrusion. And where can it find a throne, like 
the heart of an innocent girl ? Where can it find a crown so 
becoming as youth and beauty ? 

The young clergyman lifted the silver cup to his lips : 
" Let us drink to the memory of our Saviour," said he, " the 
Saviour of the world ! " and raising his eyes to heaven, con- 
tinued, " Redeemer, crucified Redeemer, this do we, in remem- 
brance of thee." There was an eloquence in his voice, and 
an inspiration in his eye, as he pronounced these emphatic 
words, that called a celestial glow to the fair'cheek of Annette 
Lee, and lighted up her eye with the lustre of a seraph's. 
There was a holy enthusiasm burning upon the altar of her 
heart, that needed but one breath of the spirit of its genius, to 
kindle it to a flame that would flash out beyond its own sanc- 
tuary, and impart its warmth to the souls of others. The dim 
eyes of the old men and women caught life and spirit from 
hers, and their voices grew strong and harmonious, as they 
uttered a fervent response to the sacred sentiment of their 
devout pastor. Edward Marion looked around upon the pious 
group, so richly endowed with spiritual gifts ; and felt that he 
was blest indeed, to be the chosen pastor of so faithful a flock 
The aged minister, who had for many years presided over the 
spiritual empire of the church, had lately gone to his grave ; 
and of the respectable body of Christians who had formerly 
united themselves under his ecclesiastical jurisdiction, only 
twelve now remained. He was a pious and godly man, and 
had been remarkable for preserving peace and unity in the 
church ; but he lacked the energy and enthusiasm requisite 
22 



254 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

for overpowering prejudice — the mightiest obstacle in the 
pathway of truth — or for fanning the fire in the souls of his 
hearers, to anything more than a dallying flame, which, by 
its wavering and uncertain light, tantalized their hopes and 
anticipations, till they expired from very weariness. The only 
accession which had been made to the church since its first 
organization, was our sweet Annette ; and it was more through 
the persuasions of her devoted mother, and the holy impulses 
of her own heart, than any influence of the good pastor, that 
even she was added to that small company of saints. It can- 
not be wondered, then, that some golden visions should flit 
through the brain of their new pastor, young as he was, and 
with a soul full of bright promises and glorious anticipations. 
It cannot be wondered that his heart grew light with hope, 
and his soul warm with zeal, as he looked upon the great 
work before him, — a limitless work of enfranchisement and 
salvation. 

True piety is the touchstone of the heart. There is a 
magic in it that opens the sealed fountains of the soul, — that 
wakens scintillations in every ray of its holy light, and that 
calls forth life, and beauty, and harmony, from even the 
marble heart, that is shrunk in the miser's breast. It kindled 
a flame in the soul of Marion, that rose to heaven. His eye 
grew even brighter, and his voice more eloquent, as the com- 
munion hymn swelled up from his lips ; and his tall, slight 
frame seemed nerved with more than human energy. For a 
few moments his voice was solitary ; but presently a sound, 
low, sweet, and tremulous, stole from another of the worship- 
pers, and grew stronger, clearer, and richer, till it seemed the 
very minstrelsy of an angel. Every eye was filled with tears 
— tears of love, thanksgiving and joy, and every soul was 
exhilarated with the fervor of its hopes, and the intensity of 
its devotion. Every power and principle of their natures — 
their thoughts, their hopes, and their affections, were mingled 
together in the triumph of that song. It seemed to them that 
the veil was already rent, and that the glory of the New 
Jerusalem was shining round about them. Here was none 
of the pomp and ceremony of a Romish carnival, no false form 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 255 

of fashion or Pharisaical sanctity, to dazzle the eye and pall 
the soul ; but there was nature — free, impulsive, enthusiastic 
nature, welling up from the deep heart, and coursing its way 
to the boundless waters of eternal life. What a scene for the 
infidel to look upon ! Let him " who scoffs at piety and 
heaven," — who ridicules the holy name of Jesus, and bows 
to the dark idol that his own imagination has created — let 
such an one enter the tabernacle of the Almighty, where his 
worship is set up in the heart, and kindled by the rays of his 
everlasting love ; where forms are forgotten, and fashion has 
no sway ; where the souls of the worshippers become trans- 
parent, and their hearts are seen without a blemish, and he 
will feel a chord in his o\vn soul thrilled by the magic touch ; 
a chord that may have lain senseless, but is not dead — that, 
like an jEolian lyre, needs but a constant breath, to yield 
undying melody. 

Three months followed the day of sacrament, and Marion 
stood by the death-bed of Mrs, Lee, Consumption, with its 
pale fingers, had been slowly and almost imperceptibly sever- 
ing the silver chord of life, and its submissive victim lay 
patiently awaiting the finishing stroke that was to make her 
spirit free. Marion, with Annette, had been the patient, and 
almost constant guardian of her bedside, watching through the 
long summer days, and planting flowers in the dark pathvray 
that leads to the silent chambers of death. Not a cloud drew 
near, to dim the spirit of the sufferer. Every doubt was 
removed, every fearful thought was driven away ; not a feel- 
ing of her heart was unweaned from earth. Even her beloved 
daughter, the sweet priestess of her heart, who had tuned the 
broken harp of her widowed affections to a new melody — the 
melody of a mother's love, — the meek and uncomplaining 
angel, who had clung unweariedly to her bedside through the 
long months of her illness, and who was now resigning her 
with the submission of a martyr to the outspread arms of her 
Redeemer, even she, had now no fetters to bind her heart to 
earth. 

The white muslin curtain had been drawn aside, and the 
pink blossoms of the honey-suckle peeped through the trellised 



256 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

window, to look on the death-scene of a Christian. The sun 
had gathered his last, lingering rays beneath the drapery of 
his couch, and the pale twilight had drawn its silver curtains 
around the soft, faint stars. The cool breath of the evening 
stole through the green lattice, and stirred the chords of an 
^olian harp, which had been placed in the window at the 
request of Mrs. Lee, to beguile the weary moments of a tedious 
illness. Annette would have removed it. "Nay, Annette, 
let it stay. I love those tones — so sweet, so celestial, so 
ethereal ; they seem like the voice of a welcoming spirit, call- 
ing me to my eternal home. This is the happiest hour of my 
life. I have long thought of death, as a beautiful entrance to 
my father's fold, — a quiet way by which to enter the pastures 
of my good Shepherd — but never, never did I know the joy, 
the ecstatic joy, that is this moment lighting up my soul with 
the brightness of heaven. It is the shadow of celestial peace 
— the dawning of Elysian light — the first, sweet, faint glow 
of an eternal radiance. It is a joy that has no tincture of 
earth — that takes its hue from the ray that streams through 
the arches of heaven. How many a bitter pang might my 
poor heart have been spared, had this light beamed upon it in 
early life. Oh ! death teaches us a glorious lesson ! The 
mist that clouds our mental perception in hours of life, fades 
before the brightness that is shed upon our dying moments — 
and in those few moments we see with the clear vision of 
Deity. The frailties and follies of human nature — the crimes 
and vices that are so magnified by the haziness that is spread 
before our moral perception in hours of health, when seen by 
the clear light of celestial mercy that hallows our hearts in 
our dying hours, seem like mere points of darkness upon a 
broad surface of light — and we trace so distinctly, too, the 
clear outline of their shadows — the miseries and wretched- 
ness that follow in their train — that it seems to us, could we 
retain this knowledge in our minds, and be brought back again 
to the entrance of life's pathway, to walk once more within its 
flowery borders, that we could easily avoid the deadly night- 
shades that spring up amid its richest clusters, and feast our- 
selves upon all the joys and excellences of earth, as freely, and 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 357 

as unharmed, as though the noxious poison were uprooted 
forever from its soil." She paused a few moments to recover 
strength, and then proceeded : " I might have some fears of 
leaving you, my Annette, so alone in the world — without 
father or mother to shield you — but I have trust in the guar- 
dianship of a mightier Friend ; and I know that your own 
pure and innocent heart is a talisman, of itself, to keep it sacred 
from the touch of sin. You have offered the sweet incense 
of your young affections at the shrine of heaven — offer it 
there still, my beloved daughter ; and the vain idols of earth 
will have no power to enforce your worship. The golden 
crown that heaven will lay upon your head, will have a wealth 
that all the idols of the earth could never purchase — the 
wealth of a pure conscience and a happy heart." 

There is something mournful in death, even when it comes 
in its kindest aspect ; and Annette's sensitive heart, so easily 
affected by a shade of grief, felt, to its very core, the deep, 
celestial tenderness of her mother's love — and the touching 
beauty of its expiring brightness fell with a powerful energy 
upon her soul, that melted it to tears. 

" Few orators so tenderly can touch 
The feeling heart." 

Annette was one of the meekest, most trusting, and unexact- 
ing of God's creatures. His will was her law; she never 
asked of him a blessing that would require a miraculous dis- 
play of power to bestow ; she never pleaded for exemption 
from any of the afflictions of earth ; and though she felt her 
heart torn and bleeding by the stroke that death was now 
inflicting, yet no murmur escaped her lips ; she asked for no 
escape, no relief — she knew that it was right, and why should 
she repine, or wish to alter the purpose of God ? Her 
Saviour's prayer was hers, " Thy will, O God, not mine, be 
done." 

The faith that had early sprung up in her heart like a ten- 
der plant, had been fed and nourished, till it had rooted itself 
in the deep fountains of the soul, and drank in its immortal 
nature. It was a faith independent, irrepressible, and eternal, 
22* 



258 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

growing brighter beneath clouds, and stronger in the tempest. 
She stood leaning over her mother, and gazing into the clear 
depths of her full blue eyes, which had gradually faded from 
an almost preternatural brightness, till the last ray of intelli- 
gence was dying from their surface. Annette started as she 
saw the dark mist of death gathering like a shroud above 
them, and clasped her arms wildly about her mother's neck. 
She feared to behold the dying struggle — she imagined there 
was something in it appalling to her gentle nature. A sudden 
brightness again flashed to the mother's eye, and she started 
from her pillow and placed her hand upon her daughter's 
head. Annette knelt — and Marion stood by her side, and 
took her hand. A smile gathered upon the dying woman's 
lips — she half murmured a blessing — sunk back upon her 
pillow — and raising her eyes to heaven, like a lamb to its 
shepherd, yielded her spirit to the God who gave it. 

" O death ! where is thy sting ? " It is in the heart of those 
Avho have no hope in God — in the soul of the infidel and 
the unbeliever — but never, never in the soul of the Christian. 
"Thanks be to God, that hath given such the victory :" it is 
their reward — the finishing reward of their piety and faith- 
fulness — their last and richest recompense. 

Annette was not left alone. She found a home in the 
heart of one Avho loved her; of one who had seen her in the 
service of the temple, unshackled by the rigid restraints of 
fashion, impulsively throwing open the doors of her heart, and 
letting its sweet aflfections walk forth to the baptism; one 
who had seen her at the sick bed of a parent, forgetful of self 
in the soft ministrations of filial love ; one who had seen her 
resign that parent to the arms of death, without a murmur, a 
despondent sigh, and almost without a tear. Had Marion 
met her in a giddy throng, " mid fashion's votaries," he might 
never have known the wealth of her spotless heart ; but he 
had seen her in trial and in grief; and the priceless pearl had 
remained untarnished, and won his soul. 

1836. 



FBOSE SELECTIONS. 259 

THE MARTYR. 

There is a simple tale related in the annals of martyrdom, 
that most beautifully illustrates the power of the Christian 
faith, in strengthening the heart for the most fearful trials, 
temptation, persecution, and death. It is the tragic story of 
Joan Lashford, one of the long lists of martyrs who suffered 
in Mary's reign. Her unassuming name has found but a 
shaded recess in history, for the brilliancy of greater names 
has cast a veil over the starlike beauty of her character — its 
tenderness and meekness, its truth and constancy, its fortitude 
and faith. 

Her way was in the humble walks of life ; but manifesta- 
tions of moral beauty are not dependent upon outward lights, 
— rank, opulence, and brilliant genius ; they are revelations 
made by the spiritual light of innocence and piety, and are as 
often visible in the deeds of the lowly-hearted peasant, as in 
the proud performances of lords and kings. The rank and 
genius that have made Cranmer and Latimer so eminent in 
the history of martyrdoms, have added no lustre to the name 
we would commemorate. Joan was not noble in birth and 
station, but in mind and deed; she was not gifted with wis- 
dom and eloquence, but with a pure spirit and a faithful 
heart ; and are not these the only true distinctions of great- 
ness? It mattered little to her that the volumes of mystic 
lore were sealed- — that the oracles of classic wisdom were 
hidden mysteries ; the only volume that she cared to unclasp, 
yielded its truths to her simplest intelligence ; and the oracle 
of infinite wisdom, the only one that she consulted, needed no 
interpretation but such as was afforded by the natural percep- 
tions of her clear and vigorous mind. 

Joan's early years were passed in the service of Dr. Story, 
her kinsman — an intolerant Catholic, and violent persecutor 
of dissenters. His faithlessness and duplicity, his taunting 
insolence and tyrannical oppression, are almost without parallel. 
It was a proud boast of his, that there had never been one 
burnt in Queen Mary's reign, of whose death he had not been 
the chief cause. What a misfortune to a helpless maiden, to 



260 . PROSE SELECTIONS. 

be held in the power of such a man ! Before Joan had com- 
pleted her twentieth year, her parents, being suspected of 
cherishing heretical sentiments, were arrested and cast into 
prison. Here their affectionate daughter ministered to them 
in their sorrow. But the jealous eye of bigotry was a witness 
of her holy missions ; she, too, was arrested, and after a short 
examination before the bishop, was conveyed to Newgate. 
That loathsome habitation of vice was for many months the 
home of a tender female, whose only crime was fidelity to her 
Saviour. 

At this time. Dr. Story, probably influenced by a selfish 
desire of preserving the life of a faithful servant, made inter- 
cession to Dr. Martin, who then held the office of commis- 
sioner, both for Joan and her parents; and being a man of 
considerable influence, his efforts spared their lives. But it 
was only for a short time. He was himself, soon after, ap- 
pointed commissioner, and desirous of displaying his zeal in 
the cause of the queen, " so far forgot himself and his old 
servant," says the historian, " that he became no small pro- 
curer of their deaths ;" thus furnishing another instance of 
the evil effects of power upon the human heart. 

After the martyrdom of her parents, Joan was again brought 
before the bishop. But her faith was unwavering ; she was 
neither moved by his temptations, nor intimidated by his 
threats. He questioned her concerning her faith ; to which 
she replied, " For more than twelve months I have come unto 
no popish mass, nor service of the church ; neither will I, 
either to receive the sacrament of the altar or to be confessed, 
because my conscience will not permit me so to do. And I 
do confess and protest that in the sacrament of the altar, there 
is not the real presence of Christ's body and blood, neither is 
the auricular confession or absolution, after the popish sort, 
necessary, nor is the mass good, or according unto the Scrip- 
ture; but all the superfluous sacraments, ceremonies, and 
divine service, as now used in the realm of England, are most 
vile, and contrary to Christ's words and institution, for they 
neither were at the beginning, neither shall they be at the end." 

What a dauntless confession for a delicate girl to make to 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 261 

a powerful and cruel bishop, with the view of a fearful mar- 
tyrdom before her — within very sight, as it were, of the 
crackling fagot, and the scorching flame ! The bishop then 
exhorted her to return to the church. 

" If you will leave off yoiar abominations," she fearlessly 
replied, " I will return ; otherwise, I will not." 

Bonner still persisted, promising her pardon of all her errors, 
if she would be conformed, to which she answered, " Do as it 
pleaseth you, and I pray God that you may do that Avhich 
may please God." 

She was condemned, and with five others, brought to the 
stake ; and, in the language of the historian, " there washed 
her garments in the blood of the Lamb, dying most constantly 
for his word and truth, to whom, most lovingly, she espoused 
herself." 

We regret that the historian has passed so lightly over her 
death. We could wish that he had omitted one "ghostly 
letter" of John Bradford, or one holy epistle of Nicholas Shet- 
terden, and devoted the page to the perishing of that meek 
flower, whose youth and sweetness were sacrificed without 
the incense of one tear, perhaps, for she was a lonely orphan, 
a desolate blossom, crushed in her solitary loveliness, by the 
reckless tread of bigotry and persecution. We cannot but 
regret that the last revelations of that godlike spirit were 
suffered to pass away, unnoted in their wondrous beauty ; 
and that the sweet inspirations of faith and hope, which her 
gentle voice may have uttered through the drapery of flames 
that consumed her, should have died away unheard, like the 
melody of a lone harp. 

We have drawn no colors from fiction to aid in the embel- 
lishment of our picture ; there is a majesty in its plain truth, 
that would be only weakened by the glare of a false light. A 
fair creature, in the freshness of her young life, forsaking its 
hopes and its joys, and in the pious adoration of an humble 
heart, yielding herself to the cruelties of a dreadful martyr- 
dom, rather than prove false to the doctrines of a loved Re- 
deemer, is a picture that needs but the simple light of its own 
reality, to startle us with its surprising beauty. 



262 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

There is a dark catalogue of scenes like this portrayed upon 
the historic page ; and many of them, we grieve to say it, 
have been w^itnessed in the gardens of our own fair land. And 
even yet, that spirit of intolerance, that " holy audaciousness," 
(as the Dominican friar defined it,) which doomed the Pro- 
testant maiden to the stake', is lingering among the beautiful 
vineyards of Zion, and breathing its feverish malignance upon 
the rich fruitage that it cannot blight. The same spirit is yet 
alive, not walking abroad in noonday light, and covering the 
earth with gloom and desolation, as in the days of its su- 
premacy, but brooding in darkness, and cowering in secret 
places, keeping a vigilant and envious eye upon the glorious 
up-building of the kingdom which it would vainly seek to 
destroy. 

1837. 



ELEONORA, THE SHAKERESS. 

" There, there ! Nathan, seest that long silver line of mist 
rising from that dark old forest ? 'T is the token of a hidden 
river — I verily believe me, there lies the actual gold-bedded 
stream we seek ! " exclaimed the beautiful little enthusiast, 
who sat in the front of a long covered wagon, to an elderly, 
intelligent-looking man by her side. " Oh, I do hope so ! I 
almost think I can see the glimmer of a blue lake, just such 
as dear old brother Simon described in his testament." 

" Hush, Eleonora," replied old Nathan, fondly, taking off 
his broad-brimmed hat, and holding it up before his eyes, to 
screen them from the full blaze of the rising sun, that he 
might scrutinize the spot pointed out by the little sister ; 
" hush, giddy thing ! more like it is the glimmer of your own 
blue eyes — for do you not see that all before us is one un- 
broken extent of forest, and that if there were a sheet of water 
concealed there, your eyes could not penetrate all that mass 
of trunks and leaves to discover it ? " 

" But my eyes are young, and yours are old and dim, Na- 
than. I declare, I do see water through the trees ! Look 
steady a moment — how it sparkles in the sunbeams ! I 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 263 

claim the great discovery of Simon's western estate ! " and 
her light laugh rang like liquid melody along the adjacent 
forest-borders, as she started to her feet and held out her little 
mittened hand with on air of pomposity ; " bear witness, all, 
that Eleonom Fay is justly entitled to the honor of bestowing 
her own name upon that bed of water, and that it is no longer 
' Simon's Lake,' but EleoTwras Lake, or Lake Eleonora. 
May n't it be so, Nathan ? " she begged, with an eager voice, 
seconded by an eloquent appeal from her clear large eyes, 
whose petitions, she well knew, were Tiever refused. 

" Yea, child, if it prove to be what we seek, you shall make 
it your namesake ; but, for my part, I can see nothing like 
what you speak of, though there is, to be sure, a veil of mist 
at some distance yonder. How is it, Mary, do you see any- 
thing marvellous ?" 

The woman addressed leaned forward in the carriage, and 
strained her eyes to catch a glimpse of what the little beauty 
so resolutely persisted in declaring to be distinctly visible. 
" Yea, most certainly there is water there, but may be it is 
not ' Simon's Lake,' after all. However, I think we may as 
well stop and take our breakfast, and after that, send some of 
the brethren to explore the forest, for we cannot, at all events, 
be far from the place of our destination." 

" Well, well, may be so," replied Nathan ; " take the reins, 
while I alight and consult the brethren." In rear of the car- 
riage containing our friends, Nathan, Mary, and Eleonora, 
besides half a dozen sisters whom we have not introduced to 
our readers, followed two carriages of similar construction, 
containing about an equal number of persons, male and 
female — still further in the rear, followed a baggage-team, 
drawn by six strong, plump horses, their warm breaths smok- 
ing in the cool morning air, and their sleek sides moist, as 
though their matin travel had been rapid, and of considerable 
extent. 

After some consultation between the elder and his brethren, 
in which it was decided that Mary's advice was worthy of 
being followed, the carriages were speedily vacated, the horses 
detached, and the whole party grouped beneath the ancient 



264 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

forest trees, that in their long and glorious existence, had 
never looked down upon an assemblage of beings, so unique 
and picturesque, as the small fraternity of Shakers now clus- 
tered beneath their boughs. The drab-colored broad-brims 
and long rounded jackets, the plain peculiar coats and blue 
yarn stockings of the men, were curiously contrasted with 
the scant pressed-flannel gowns, narrow gray cloaks and close 
no-crowned bonnets of the women, who were bustling about 
with their characteristic notableness, preparing breakfast, 
while the brethren waited upon their lusty, well-fed animals. 
Tea-kettles were soon boiling, potatoes roasting, and pork fry- 
ing at short intervals about the sylvan tabernacle, whilst little 
Eleonora stood with glistening eyes, admiring the strange 
and, to her mind, exciting spectacle. 

" And so, Mary," said she to the tall, dignified matron we 
have before mentioned, who sat superintending the operations 
of the subordinates, " this is breakfasting in an Ohio wild- 
wood, is it not ? I had no idea before of such a scene. It 
reminds me of the gypsy parties you have told me about, only 
our dresses are not so fantastic." 

" You are just about wild enough for a young gypsy," re- 
plied the eldress, pleasantly ; " come and see if there is not 
something to tame you here," leading her to the long table 
which was spread beneath the trees. The whole party were 
collected at the feast with appetites whetted by long absti- 
nence and that peculiar stimulant which is natural to wood- 
lands, and is said to give such a strong zest to every species 
of aliment, from the richest roast, down to a cold potato ; and 
while they are satiating those cravings of nature, that, with 
all- their warrings agahist nature, they have never been able 
to conquer, we will gratify the curiosity of our readers, if we 
may be allowed the vanity to suppose we have awakened any, 
by detailing briefly their origin and destination. 

They were the better portion of a large society of Connecti- 
cut Shakers, who were about to make a settlement upon an 
extensive estate, deeded to them a few months before, by an 
aged brother upon his death-bed. Nathan and Mary had for 
many years been elders of the church, and bore as unlimited 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 265 

sway over the subjects of their little territory, as the haughti- 
est autocrat that ever wielded the sceptre of an empire. So 
long accustomed to their imperative dictation, the fraternity 
had learned to feel no surprise at the most novel project that 
might be set on foot by these petty despots, and obeyed their 
requirements as unresistingly as the " world's people" submit 
to the laws of nature and expediency. Indeed, there could 
not be much regret occasioned by the relinquishment of the 
statute books into less authoritative hands, for though Nathan 
and Mary were more profound legislators, they were far less 
lenient executives than their successors. 

Nathan had graduated at a university in early life, and had 
commenced the practice of law, when a serious disappointment 
of the heart prostrated, for a time, his health and reason. His 
recovery was attended by a kind of sullen misanthropy, which 
induced him to withdraw from the world, and unite himself 
with this secluded people, where he had gradually recovered 
his cheerfulness, and displayed so many tokens of a leading 
gift, that he was promoted to the eldership of the church, 
which office he had now held for the term of fourteen years. 
Those who witnessed him at his graduation thirty years be- 
fore, and heard him pronounce an eloquent dissertation upon 
ancient literature, would hardly acknowledge, in the plain per- 
sonage presiding at the woodland breakfast, the identity of 
that elegant young collegian. His hair, which, were he our 
hero, we should canonically term auburn, was changing its 
somewhat brilliant hue, for a color more accordant with the 
drab complexion of the coat, on which its long, unbarbered 
locks, clustered in heroic ringlets — his restless blue eye, long, 
straight nose, and prominent, veiny forehead, were marked by 
the hand of time in hues fainter and more delicate, yet still 
distinct enough to betray the chisel of the great Sculptor, 
whose study includes the universe, and whose materials com- 
prehend creation- 
Nathan had one peculiarity, which all his professions of 
simplicity of manners and plainness of speech had never erad- 
icated. He loved to display his classical erudition, to be 
chaste, poetic, elegant — and if possible to astonish his un- 
23 



266 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

taught auditors, and make them esteem him a very demigod- 
Though initiated in the mysteries of the same idiomatic ele- 
gance, Mary's phraseology was remarkably simple and unpre- 
tending. She had in her youthful days been a wife and a 
mother, but the witchery of Ann Lee seduced her from the 
home she had graced with her virtues and refinement, and 
turned the current of her affections, which had flowed so 
abundantly toward her husband and child, into a very differ- 
ent channel, where they had remained in frigid imprison- 
ment, till in the beauty and sweet graces of little Eleonora, 
they were at length warmed into life and action. She had 
learned the story of her husband's death a few months after ■ 
her unnatural desertion, and her child, she believed, must have 
fallen a victim to want and suffering, though of the certainty 
of its fate she had never been informed. She was a woman 
of masculine firmness of mind, and her bold, projecting fore- 
head, and black, piercing, deep-set eye, betokened an unusual 
degree of intellectual strength, such as might be expected in 
one who could so unrelentingly break the strongest natural 
ties, to take up the cross of a false Christ. 

Eleonora, now the most fascinating creature in existence, 
had been found some twelve years before, snugly deposited 
upon the doorsteps of one of the Shaker dcwmicils in Connec- 
ticut, wrapped in flannels, and dressed with exquisite taste, 
bearing a knot of blue ribbon upon her breast, to which was 
attached a small note, recommending her, in the most fervent 
and heart-thrilling manner, to the tender care of the eMer sis- 
ter, Mary Hale, — representing her as a poor, motherless babe, 
from whom a cruel fate was now tearing the last idolizing 
parent, and directing that she should be taught in all the 
Christian gifts and graces, save those that partake too strong- 
ly of sectarism, requesting, moreover, that perfect freedom 
of action, speech, and thought, should be allowed her, so far 
as it did not encroach upon the strictest rules of propriety and 
spiritual purity ; and, as an earnest to this appeal, was en- 
closed a considerable sum of money, which was only a fore- 
taste of that which should accrue to them, if the child should 
be tenderly reared to the age of twelve years. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 267 

Eleonora was now commencing her thirteenth year, and as 
yet no parent had appeared to claim her; a circumstance that 
Mary for one did not regret ; for from the moment that her 
eyes first lighted upon the thrilling smiles of the orphan babe, 
her heart had been one fountain of love for her. All the 
affection that was once bestowed upon her own little cherub 
boy, was fastened upon her lovely protege. ; and as the arti- 
ficial excitement of her religious faith subsided, and it became 
to her merely a cold, formal profession, so proportionately did 
her attachment to Eleonora increase. Artless as a young 
dove, the orphan beauty had grown up, ignorant and incuri- 
ous concerning her origin — the pet of the elders, and the 
favorite of all ; — how could she be otherwise than the hap- 
piest of living things ? 

The superior talents of the elders (we speak comparatively) 
were of great service in the education of Eleonora, whose 
delicate penetration and ardent thirst for knowledge, were 
satisfied only with the complete solution of every scientific 
mystery and moral enigma that puzzled her comprehension 
or her conscience. Those who are intimately acquainted 
with the peculiar sect among whom she was reared, know 
well the general ignorance that pervades their ranks, whether 
from the design or incompetency of those who have charge 
of intellectual matters, it is not for us to decide. Albeit, the 
term of Nathan's eldership was distinguished for an unprece- 
dented diffusion of useful knowledge throughout the society; 
and which was even suffered to exceed the limits of utility in 
the education of our little heroine, insomuch that she was 
accomplished in all the branches of ornamental needlework, 
tmderstood the elements of botany, could relate, with artless ele- 
gance, the history of Shakerism, from the creation of the world 
down to the period of her connection with the society, and 
had even perused an entire volume of poetry, apart from the 
hymn-book, and a popular manuscript text-book in rhyme, 
entitled, " A Concise Answer to the Inquiry, ' Who and what 
are the Shakers ? ' " 

Such indulgence, as is usual, resulted in spoiling her, at 
least for a practical Shaker, and transformed her into the 



268 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

most enthusiastic, romantic creature possible. Such she was 
at the period of their emigmtion to the western wild, where, 
in the magnificent forests and rich alluvials, the clear, broad 
rivers and sleeping lakes, which intersected their line of 
travel, she found constant themes for her imagination to 
weave into fantasies of childish romance, and bright, millen- 
nial visions. 

The lake pointed out by her, just within the borders of the 
forest, and the meadow-land surrounding it, were too correct 
prototypes of the descriptive picture left by old Simon, to be 
mistaken ; and as further evidence of their identity, there 
stood the very huts, also mentioned in the deed, which were 
erected for temporary shelters to the surveyors, nearly eight 
years before, and now served the same kind purpose to our 
emigrants, where we shall leave them for some years, to make 
clearings and found a village after their own peculiar fashion. 

^ 4£. .A£, .U, Ol!. -^f- 

■Vv" '/*• "A" ■vc" •Jv- *«■ 

One of those long golden twilights, that so frequently suc- 
ceed the decline of the summer sun, was beginning to chequer 
with streaks and links of yellow light the softly-agitated sur- 
face of Lake Eleonora, which still retained its original quiet 
beauty, amid all the marvellous change that had been wrought 
upon its borders. There, too, warbled the yellow-bedded Are- 
thuse, winding through rich meadows with a quiet murmur, 
and becoming gradually more restless, till hushed in the breath- 
ing silence of the lake. Alas ! melodious rivulet, and sweet, 
transparent lake ! The traveller asks vainly for their loca- 
tion, and the vacant stare and evasive answer prove that their 
day of romance is past, and that henceforth ruder names will 
designate their less poetic, and perhaps more utile qualities. 
But thanks to the presiding muse that cast the spell of poesy 
over them during the brief date of our narrative ; for then 
creatures of sentiment and gifted intellect wandered delighted 
upon their sylvan borders, and enacted scenes of holy beauty 
that well deserve the faithful delineations of a chronicler's 
pen. 

A large, magnificent garden, where the rare exotic and del- 
icate wild-flower mingled like the deities and fairies of orien- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 269 

tal lauds, was fashioned from the rich soil of the river banks, 
just where it emptied its clear waters into its little oval reser- 
voir ; and even a long extent of marginal land upon the lake 
was plotted with fragrant plants, that thrived upon its fatness, 
till their tall blossoms bowed over to gaze at their own mir- 
rored beauty, and blush at its rich excess. A double row of 
ornamental trees surrounded both divisions of the garden, 
which were connected by a narrow bridge, built across the 
Arethuse, and supported by a white arch of open trellis-work, 
entirely covered by the luxuriant foliage of a wild grape-vine. 
The young Shaker girls were scattered about the garden, 
each to her allotted portion, busily engaged in training the 
fragile stalks that were borne down by their clustering fra- 
grance, and lay trailing in the dust. Close by the side of a 
beautiful almond-tree, stood a slender girl of eighteen years, 
twining the long tendrils of a pink-blossomed honeysuckle 
around the frame-work of a small arbor ; and, ever and anon, 
forgetting her task, she would glide through the intervening 
paths and stand on the shore of the lake ; — there gazing a 
moment in wild rapture at the glory of the scene, and then 
glancing back again in her light-hearted mirth, to fondle the 
flowers that were less fair than herself, and choose from the 
gorgeous multitude those of the freshest hue and sweetest 
breath to wear upon her heart — an emblem of its meekness 
and purity. 

Having at length satisfied herself with a selection that 
would do honor to a painter's taste, and being wearied with 
her exhilarating exercise, she drew off her white cambric bon- 
net, and hanging it upon a bough of the almond-tree, threw 
herself upon the seat of the arbor, and then performed sev- 
eral little trivial deeds, quite inconsistent with the rules of 
Shaker decorum. The first Avas the rolling up of her white 
sleeves above her elbows, for which indiscretion her con- 
science pleaded two good apologies — the excessive heat, and 
the fear of adding to the several small stains which she per- 
ceived, to her mortification, already disfigured their cleanness. 
Afterward, as her fever increased, she untied the strings of 
her close muslin cap, and unconsciously suffered one long 
23* 



279 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

sunny tress to escape from its "durance vile," and dance 
a free gambol with the sportive zephyr ; and then, braiding 
a knot of delicate harebells and snowy honeysuckles with a 
small blush-rose, loosened her 'kerchief at the throat, and 
flinging it apart upon her shoulders, placed the bouquet in 
the centre of the open angle. Each of these little perform- 
ances were encroachments upon the prudish propriety of the 
established customs — but as we have said in our notice of 
her childhood, indulgence had spoiled Eleonora for a practical 
Shaker — and although we perfectly exonerate her from the 
slightest charge of vanity, if feminine loveliness be ever an 
excuse for this folly, our heroine surely might have been par- 
doned for indulging in it. 

Her fair, rounded arms, bared to the mellow twilight, were 
such as a sculptor would have sought, were he chiselling a 
Psyche — her little arched throat, so rarely displayed, was 
white — O, you may be sure, it was very white ! — and that 
auburn curl was a thing, we may venture to assert, never be- 
fore seen stealing from the coif of a Shaker damsel, as their 
customs require a shorn head ; — but Eleonora's hair was so 
very beautiful, that her patroness, Maiy, would never consent 
that it should be submitted to the torturing shears, but bound 
it carefully beneath the folds of her cap, from whence acci- 
dent had now suffered it to partially emerge — and then her 
face — we would describe it if we could, but our readers may 
each cast the features in their own mould of perfect loveli- 
ness, and stamp them with the holiest expression of the spirit 
— they cannot surpass the reality. 

A gentle rustling among the leaves of a beautiful young 
tree, called her attention from her flowers, and there, nestling 
with a mischievous grace amid the corymbed blossoms, she 
espied a young dove that she had reared from its parentless 
infancy, till now it followed her footsteps like her shadow. 
She called to it softly, and with a glad flutter of its wings, it 
left the tree, and perched upon her little palm, whilst with 
her other hand, which looked as though it were made only to 
dress a flower, or caress a bird, she playfully pulled the soft 
blue fringe of its folded wings, and smoothed its snowy back. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 271 

Suddenly, as though startled, it darted up its head, and flew 
back to the tree ; its mistress raised her eyes, and met the 
admiring gaze of a stranger, who had approached the arbor 
unperceived, and now stood immediately before her. She 
uttered a slight exclamation, and remembering her discom- 
posed attire, snatched the nosegay from her bosom, and 
dropped it at her feet ; then drawing the 'kerchief together 
at the throat, and feeling the burning crimson mantling to 
her cheek and brow, fled like a frightened hare to the covert 
of the trees. She had scarcely time to compose her dress, 
still less her feelings, when the voice of Nathan summoned 
her to the arbor again. The stranger was with him. 

" Here, Eleonora Fay, this gentleman, Mr. Davenport — a 
favorite of Apollo and the Muses — desires to be conducted to 
that part of the garden most favorable for a view of the lake. 
Now you have a nice taste for such things, and a better 
knowledge of the different points of prospect than I have, so 
tie on your bonnet, and lead us to the loveliest spot, — for 
the starlight will soon fall upon it." 

" Yea, and would not starlight, early starlight, just when it 
steals upon declining day, be the very light of all others, the 
fittest for such a scene ? " she inquired, addressing the stran- 
ger-artist, and raising her eyes towards him rather composed- 
ly, till they fell, unfortunately, upon the boquet resting on his 
bosom — the very one she had thrown away ; and then her 
composure was again put to flight. She hastened on, with- 
out waiting for a reply, and did not again pause till they had 
arrived at the upper part of the garden, where a summer- 
house was erected upon the summit of a slope. Many frail 
and beautiful exotics were arranged in pots around the border 
of the mossy floor, and a woodbine covered the white exterior. 

" Here," said Eleonora to Nathan, " here is the spot which 
Mary and I chose for the site of the summer-house, and I 
cannot but think Mr. Davenport will be pleased with this 
view of the lake." 

" Ah, yes ! " he exclaimed, " one might almost believe it 
the very land of the millennium, such proud old forests, dark- 
ling in shadows and glowing in light, as changeable as the 



272 PROSE SELECTIONS, 

zephyr that sweeps through their massy foliage — the tran- 
quil lake, tranquil but one moment, ere the whole breath of 
the woodland is flung down upon its sensitive surface — the 
garden with its rare young trees and beds of flowers, not to 
speak of the animate charms, that give such sweet expression 
to the scene" — and here a glance, transient as a meteor, and 
almost as bright, was directed towards Eleonora. " Oh, now 
for the canvass and the pencil ! this stool shall be my throne, 
and here will I create a mimic world, as fair as the Eden of 
the east." 

"But beware," said Nathan, solemnly, "beware that you 
place no serpent in it." 

A slight color flushed the painter's cheek. " Ah, certainly, 
it would be an incongruous circumstance — the presence of 
the serpent within the holy precincts of a kingdom whose peo- 
ple are said to be his direct foes — no, no, — it shall be the 
Holy Spirit in the form of a dove, like the one now descend- 
ing upon Eleonora's hand. How apt a representation !" 

" Yea," responded the elder, clasping his hands, " yea, 
yea ! " Davenport drew a paper from his portfolio, and while 
he was sketching hastily from the scene before him, Eleonora 
had opportunity for the first time to mark his countenance. 
He was not very young, " full thirty," at least, and without 
minutely describing his appearance, we assure our readers 
that he was just such a looking person as eve)ybody at first- 
sight loves, for the very good reason, that he looked as though 
he, at first-sight, loved everybody. Eleonora now joined the 
sisters who were returning from their evening toil, as the 
tinkling tea-bell promised a grateful refreshment, and when, 
two by two, the white-clad virgins passed the little retreat of 
the artist, his eye followed their steps with an expression of 
fervent admiration. He declined the elder's invitation to par- 
take of the evening meal, and bidding him farewell, passed 
through the gate and disappeared. 

When Eleonora had retired to her little bed, which occu- 
pied a pleasant corner of the dormitory, her mind recurred to 
the scenes of the day. And then stole forth the deeply peni- 
tent prayer for pardoning grace to quench the rising sin, that 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 273 

she vainly strove to repress. She invoked the Holy Spirit to 
operate upon her heart, for a forbidden affection had entered 
its inmost sanctuary — a love stronger than that of a sister — 
for Mary, nor Nathan, nor one dear member of the fraternity 
had ever held such sway over her thoughts, as the stranger 
whom a late hour had first presented to her. She dwelt upon 
his first look of admiration at their encounter in the arbor — 
upon the boquet in his bosom — the glance in the summer- 
house — upon every word he had uttered, every action he had 
performed. Was it not wrong — vitally sinful? Her creed 
answered yea — and ere she could be absolved, she must con- 
fess her bondage, and vow a new allegiance to the cross. 
" Yea," she mentally ejaculated, " to-morrow I will confess all 
to Mary, and then I shall know peace again. my God ! 
I have told thee my weakness, but thou art so full of mercy 
that thou dost not rebuke me. It seems that now my spirit 
hears thy kind, soft voice reply, — ' It is no sin ! ' But it is 
an illusion, Father; an illusion of the evil one — it vziist be 
sin, else why is it forbidden ? " Poor Eleonora ! she knew 
not the deceit that had been practised upon her innocent 
mind ; she knew not that she had been instructed in a spuri- 
ous gospel, wrought out from the vain traditions of men. 

They had taught her that all natural affection is vile, even 
the holiest ties of parental and conjugal love ; that the ties of 
consanguinity should be broken as chains of carnal bondage, 
and a zealous warfare carried on against the laws of nature, 
ere the spirit could be entitled to wear the millennial crown. 
But the law of love is imperative — not so easily subdued as 
its rebel subjects could desire. Thanks be to God! it is 
written upon their hearts, and till they are wasted to the 
inmost core, the burning sentence will remain — the irrevoca- 
ble edict of the King of Love ! 

Even sleep, the spirit's " sweet restorer," did not obliterate 
the image of a rich black eye and thrilling smile from Elono- 
ra's mind, and when the Sabbath dawn awoke her to their 
more vivid remembrance, her first lisping from the footstool of 
grace was, " Father in heaven ! give me strength to confess 
all ! " Soon as the duties and religious exercises of the morn- 



274 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

ing were through, and all were apparelled for their public 
" labors" at the church, she requested a momentary audience 
in private, with the beloved eldress ; and withdrawing to a 
small apartment, used as a sort of oratory, or confessional, she 
kneeled at Mary's feet, and related, in the most artless and 
affecting manner, her transgression of the laws of God. Her 
confessor was moved to tears. 

" Dear sister," she replied, " ours is an ascetic life ; con- 
stant mortifications and crucifixions are to be endured, natural 
affections denied, and earthly hopes repressed. Eleonora, 
angel of light! to you alone, beside my God, I make this 
humiliating confession, — saint-like as is my outward appear- 
ance, insomuch that they have styled me the daughter of the 
Lady-elect; free as I seem from the vassalage of earth and 
earthly passions, never, in the height of my giddy career 
within her carnal courts, was I so entirely within her bonds 
as now. Eleonora, young sister of my heart, — no tie in. 
earth or heaven retains me here but you ! 'No tenet of my 
faith is strong enough, no hope of heaven, born of sacrificial 
rites and holy penances, is dear enough, to hold me longer to 
monastic life. And why, your eyes inquire, why this sudden 
passion for the world ? Once, sweet child, it would have 
been a fruitless task to have explained my motive, with a 
hope to make you comprehend it ; but Tvonjo, now that you 
love, — start not, for your artless confession has revealed 
the truth, — now that you love, it will not be impossible for 
you to know that a vwther can love as deeply. I need not 
caution you to preserve my secret — yau, never betray another's 
revelations — but believe the truth I tell you — Charles Da- 
venport is my son 1 " 

" Spirit of truth ! " exclaimed the pale penitent, starting to 
her feet, and clasping the trembling hand of her confessor, 
" your son ? you told me that your son was dead — that he 
slept in the grave with his father ! " 

" I thought it was so ; but an incident that occurred yester- 
day, has unveiled the truth, that my own dear Charles is 
living — and I have gazed upon his face, and heard his voice 
of music. Oh, how sweet that voice ! I hear it now ; so 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 275 

like his father's when he breathed his last farewell and blessed 
rae, all the while that his heart was breaking with grief at 
my cruel desertion." 

" And how did you ascertain the relation ? " inquired Eleo- 
nora, all engrossed by the strange discovery. 

" Sit down with me, and I will tell you aU. Yesterday, 
just about sunset, elder Nathan entered the office, where I 
was sitting with several sisters, accompanied by a gentleman 
bearing in his hand a large portfolio. At the first glance, I 
started as though a spectre had crossed my path ; but Nathan 
introduced him as Mr. Davenport, and I felt relieved. It was 
only momentarily, however, for he spoke, and I have told you 
the effect of his voice. I can never forget the sensations of 
that moment. He said that the exceeding beauty of our lake 
had allured him to the village, and as he had an earnest 
desire to take a sketch of it, he had spoken to the elder for a 
temporary location for his easel upon a favorable point of our 
land ; and as a slight return for the kind permission granted, 
he was about to allow us a peep at the contents of his port- 
folio. He opened it as he spoke, and we clustered about 
him ; the sisters to admire his sketches, myself to stand by 
his side and scrutinize his magic countenance. It was like 
my own ; I could perceive the resemblance, but it was more 
like my husband's. He noticed my earnest gaze, and cast an 
inquiring glance, that seemed to say, 'Who are you?' then 
turned away unsatisfied, and shuffled over the beautiful speci- 
mens of his art. My eye fell unconsciously upon them, and 
was chained with serpentine fascination to a half-concealed 
miniature; I snatched it from among the sheets, and read the 
name written beneath it, — ' Likeness of Charles Hale, copied 
by his son.' I saw no more ; my head whirled ; darkness 
concealed the name, and I fainted. Such is the tale of my 
strange discovery. When I recovered, the stranger, my son, 
had departed. No one knew the cause of my indisposition, 
no one suspected it. I retired to my chamber, and gazed 
from the wmdow that overlooks the garden, to catch another 
glimpse of the being who had so magically unsealed the foun- 
tain of maternal love. My eyes followed every step till he 



276 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

was lost among the trees, and then waited, oh how anxiously, 
to see him emerge. The last sight was but momentary — 
he mounted his horse, and rode speedily away. To-day, 
weak and perturbed as I am, I have prepared myself for 
church, in hope to see him there. I feel that my very life is 
bound up in him ; he whom I so unnaturally deserted in the 
weakness of infancy — a maniac I must have been to have 
done it — has now appeared before me in the pride and beauty 
of manhood, to make me feel to the heart's core, the depravity 
of which I have been guilty. I threw away my treasure, but 
it was not lost ; and now in its rich maturity ; it gleams 
across my pathway, to leave it again darker than the walks 
of death. Alas, for the witchcraft of Ann Lee ! " 

" Witchcraft ! Oh, Mary, do not blaspheme ! Was she 
not the Messiah — the holy mother of believers — the second 
incarnation of God's only begotten ? Mary, dear Mary, do not 
deny your Saviour ! " 

" Sweet, infatuated child ! Must I answer to Heaven for 
your delusion also ? Let me go back to the days of my first 
deviation from truth, and give you a full confession of all my 
errors. You will respect me less, but my conscience will feel 
lightened of its burden, and you will pity, if you cannot par- 
don me. Thirty years ago I was a happy wife and mother 
— the mistress of a little paradise upon the banks of the Hou- 
satonic, surrounded by cultivated society, and blest as mortal 
can be. At that time, the fame of Ann Lee was spreading 
like wildfire through New England, and marvellous tales were 
told of the wonders she performed, the miracles she wrought, 
and the multitude of disciples that left all to follow her. She 
entered the village where I lived, and my ardent temperament 
was excited to the highest degree by her singular appearance. 
She would often appear in the middle of the street, no one 
knew how; and spinning swifter than a top, would whirl 
round and round till out of sight, in a manner that exceeds 
description. Sometimes spasms and fits of various kinds 
would assail her, which she pretended were operations of the 
Spirit; in short, all the wild exorcisms and rantings of a 
witch and a fanatic, were resorted to, as successful machinery 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 277 

in her unhallowed operations. Husbands forsook their wives, 
and parents their children ; families were broken up, and 
domestic harmony destroyed in more than one hamlet, by the 
power of her mad incantations. But her eloquence, — for she 
was eloquent in a peculiar way, — was what completed my 
infatuation. Religious lunacy, or something equally un- 
natural, usurped the throne of reason and common sense, and 
I became one of the most raving of zealots. But after I joined 
the society at Union Village, my excitement gradually died 
away, and the dull, formal life which succeeded, brought me 
to a sense of my folly. The death of my husband was a 
powerful awakener, but I was too proud to betray any repent- 
ance and from a fiery enthusiast, I changed to a cold, unfeel- 
ing stoic. This reckless indifference to everything around 
me, was looked upon by my sectarian friends as the evidence 
of great internal piety, and I was gradually promoted till I 
obtained the eldership of the church. About this time, 
Nathan joined us ; and his fine talents, and somewhat aris- 
tocratic nobleness of soul, won my respect and friendship. I 
used all my influence, which has never been slight, to effect 
his promotion, and in two years I greeted him as brother- 
elder. He never was at heart a believer, and I knew it ; but 
I was as little of one as himself, and no slight diplomatist 
withal. I reckoned much upon his cooperation in all matters 
of sacerdotal legislation, and was not disappointed ; for the 
powers of his mind were well adapted to the administration 
of laws, and those, too, of not the most lenient nature. We 
were both of us somewhat despotic, but neither of us what 
you would call tyrants. Yet 1 was never happy till since you 
were left with us ; till that time, my affections lay dormant, 
and woe to the woman who has nothing to love ! You never 
saw the note that was written by your father, nor have you 
been informed of its contents. I intended to have sho^vn it to 
you when your age became ripe enough to allow you to im- 
derstand its import ; but as every added year flung new and 
sweeter beauties upon your head, that drew still stronger the 
cord of love around my heart. I grew selfish, and dreaded to 
acquaint you with its contents, lest its promise might fill your 
24 



278 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

heart with hopes and affections toward another being than 
myself. But you shall see it now." 

She drew from her bosom a small morocco case in the form 
of the lady's purse used in olden time, and took from it a slip 
of paper which she handed to Eleonora. " I have kept it in 
this little depository of cherished relics, and worn it ever on 
my heart. Forgive me for concealing it from you." Eleo- 
nora perused it eagerly. " To the age of twelve years I " she 
exclaimed. " Ah, that era has long since past, and no parent 
has claimed me." A sigh, deeply sad, stole from her heart. 
" It is well — well that the note was kept from me, for I could 
not have borne the disappointment. In my ignorance I was 
happj'' ; I have ever been happy till now, and when I seek in 
you consolation, I find that you have none to give. My 
father, O my father ! why was not thy promise ratified ? Is 
thy child forgotten ; thy motherless one unloved ? or has 
death taken thee forever from her ? " The large tears rolled 
down her cheeks ; she rested her head on the bosom of her 
affectionate friend, and unburdened all her sorrow there. 

" Dear child," said the compassionate sister, " there is yet 
hope for you, now that you can speak thus ; there is a foun- 
tain of natural affection in your heart, that all the false creeds 
in the world cannot evaporate. I feared the lessons which I 
had so pertinaciously taught you, had sunk too deep to be 
eradicated ; for despite my own scepticism, and the injunction 
in the note to suffer your mind to expand in the full light of 
Christianity, unshackled by creeds and sectarism, my selfish 
love had fears that your enthusiastic mind might despise the 
narrow spirit of our faith, and prompt you to forsake us for the 
more liberal and cultivated society of the world. But I tell 
you seriously, with an honest conviction of the truth of what 
I utter, that the whole articles of our creed are false, — false 
as the doctrines of Eve's seducer. Nay, even more, the Bible 
— our Bible — in which we profess to find foundation for our 
foolish tenets, even that is chiefly false — a mere adulterated 
transcript of the Holy Testament of God. But my deception 
ends not here. At the time of our departure from Connecti- 
cut, so fearful were Nathan and I, that your father might 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 279 

return and make inquiries for you, that we bribed the society, 
by a relinquishment of all the money that might be offered as 
a recompense for the care taken of you ; to feign a story of 
your recent death, and of my apostasy from the faith and 
return to the society of the world. This was the wickedest 
of all my deceits ; but, oh ! the prospect of loneliness and 
heartsickness that would be the result of your loss was not 
to be thought of; I could not believe that the story of your 
death could affect a parent who had never seen you from your 
earliest infancy, with the same depth of sorrow that your loss 
would one who had lived in the light of your smiles from their 
dawn to their midday. Perhaps he has never sought you, 
but if he is living, it is more probable that he has. May we 
not hope yet to find him ? " 

" And if we do ? " inquired Eleonora emphatically, grasping 
Mary's arm, and gazing earnestly into her face. 

" O, ask me not what ! I cannot tell you all my wishes and 
premeditations." 

" But I can guess some of them ! " said Eleonora, the light 
of hope again beaming from her eyes. They had no time, 
however, to hatch conspiracies or make longer confessions 
then, for the clock struck eleven, and that was the signal to 
form the procession to church. 

■AL. .it. AA, Af, .AT, ^ M, M, .^A, 

•fi- ■TV' TY' "^ TV- •75" TV" "Tv- T^ 

Evening is the season for romance, for penitence and 
prayer ; it is the hour of poetry and spiritual existence, when 
the soul's high gifts utter themselves in melody; it is the 
point at which we would have the hour-glass pause, and time 
fold up his wings. So thought Eleonora, as she sat in her 
little arbor at the close of the day following her long conver- 
sation with Mary ; she was alone in the garden, all the young 
sisters being absent with elder Nathan upon an excursion 
for gathering wild berries, agreeably to a proposition of the 
eldress, who, for reasons best known to herself, had thus con- 
trived to have the garden vacated. Eleonora's employments 
had been such as to prevent her earlier attendance upon her 
flowers, and she had entered the garden now at the bidding 
of the eldress, whose coming she was directed to a\vait there. 



280 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

The western clouds were gathered in gorgeous drapery above 
the couch of the monarch of day — royal purple fringed with 
gold, and light crimson banners wreathed in fantastic shapes, 
as though 

" Angels, soaring through the air, 
Had left their mantles floating there ;" 

and just in the scallop of a soft white cloud, glittered the nar- 
row bow of the new-born moon. The lake was motionless as 
the sky above it, save now and then disturbed by the ripple 
of an oar in the hands of a Shaker lad, who was throwing his 
line along the centre of the gleaming waves for speckled trout 
and brindled pike, and sometimes pausing by a bed of water- 
lilies, to enjoy their beauty and fragrance, without presuming 
to pluck one from the stem, or even disturb it with his oar. 
Eleonora had paused a few moments to enjoy the scene, and 
then passed on to the arbor. She had been reclining there 
but a few moments, when, as usual, her little dove lighted 
upon her hand, but not calmly as he was wont ; he was peck- 
ing angrily at a paper which was tied to his throat. With a 
trembling hand his mistress untied the small blue bow that 
fastened it, and thus released, the bird darted gayly away. 
She opened the paper, and started to see a beautiful copy of 
the boquet the artist had worn away upon his bosom, and 
beneath it was a little sonnet, inscribed to Eleonora. We 
have the very original before us, but we are aware that it 
would be dishonorable in us to make public what was intended 
for one eye only, though it must have been empowered with 
the true spell of poesy, if we may judge from its effects upon 
the countenance of her to whom it was addressed. She had 
only time to peruse it hastily and hide it in her bosom, ere 
the eldress approached the arbor. 

" Eleonora, you are here ; are you sure there is no one else 
in the garden ? " 

" No one, I am confident," she replied. " Follow me, has- 
tily, then, and stand near the summer-house to see that no 
one intrudes while I am there." She obeyed reluctantly. 
How could she meet the author of that sonnet with anything 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 281 

like composure ? Her countenance was such a gossip of her 
most secret feelings, that to look at him would be to betray 
them all. She therefore begged to remain within the bridge 
near the summer-house, till her friend's return ; and having 
granted permission, Mary disappeared. 

Eleonora waited half an hour in the utmost agitation for 
her reappearance ; at times pacing the floor of the bridge 
with folded arms, and anon venturing a few yards up the path 
toward the little summer-cove, dreading, and yet impatient 
for her return. At length, as she stood within the bridge, 
leaning against the trellis and half hidden by the broad-leafed 
foliage of the grape-vine, she heard voices approaching which 
she recognized as those of the eldress and her son. What an 
awkward situation ! Should she remain where she was, or 
flee back to her bower ? was the momentary disquisition of 
her mind. She had not time to decide, ere the voice of Mary 
called her to meet them. " Dear Eleonora, hither a moment 
— here is my son, and he brings you news of your father." 

"Of my father!" she exclaimed, forgetting all fears, all 
reserve, in the absorbing interest of that name, and running 
to meet him with an open hand, which she placed in his with 
the most winning confidence, and looked up to him with such 
intense anxiety and pleading eloquence that his heart was 
touched to the core ; begging that he would tell her much — 
everything of her father. " Is he living ? Does he seek his 
Eleonora?" she added, eagerly. 

" Yes, he lives, but seeks not his daughter save in heaven, 
where he believes her spirit long since fled." 

" Dear father! where is he? can I see him soon ?" 

" He is now many mik^s distant ; but he will soon be with 
you, for I have written him that his child is found." 

" Heaven bless you for it ! " replied the lovely girl, her 
countenance betraying a happiness of the heart, too deep for 
words to express. " But tell me, I entreat you — I am so 
anxious to know — who he is, and why he left me so many, 
many years." 

" Come, sit with me then, for it is a long tale," he replied, 
leading her into one of those shady arbors that were erected 
24* 



282 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

in every part of the garden. " But you must make it a brief 
one," said his mother, " for do you not see that it is nearly 
dark ? and, Eleonora, my dear, you must remain without me, 
else I shall be missed at the tea-table, and that would excite 
suspicion. But remember and be brief." 

"Indeed, I cannot remain without you," said Eleonora, ris- 
ing, and taking her friend's arm, as she approached her son to 
bestow a parting kiss. 

" Then you have forgotten your anxiety about your father," 
said Mary, a little sorrowfully. The poor girl hesitated ; 
Davenport took her hand, and drew her gently to her seat ; 
" Sweet Eleonora," he said, tenderly, " you do not fear to be 
left with your brother ? I am the son of your father's adop- 
tion, the inheritor of his name, and will not you be my sister?" 

" Yea," she whispered, and never did the tone of a harp 
sound so sweetly in his ear as the soft cadence of that simple 
affirmative. " Yea, I will be anything to one my father 
loves." 

" Thank you ! sweet sister ; and now listen to a slight his- 
tory of that dear parent. William Davenport — that is his 
name — was the only son of a wealthy English baronet, and 
betrothed at the age of eighteen to Lady Emily Huntingdon, 
the only child of a widowed Countess, and a young lady of 
rare excellence. This betrothment was the work of the 
parents, and not objected to by themselves. Your father had 
a sincere friendship for Lady Emily, and her affection for 
him was even of a tenderer nature. The two years that were 
to elapse before the celebration of their nuptials, he proposed 
to spend in travel. To this his father did not object, and he, 
accordingly, came over to this continent. Shortly after his 
arrival he saw, and loved a penniless orphan — a young village 
school-mistress — but who was, nevertheless, a being of sur- 
passing beauty and angel-gifts of mind and heart. He forgot 
his affianced bride, and breathed new vows into the ear of the 
artless Eleonora." 

" My mother ! " exclaimed his all-captivated auditor. " Yes, 
your mother. Her name was Eleonora Fay, and judging from 
the picture of her countenance which he once showed me — 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 2iSS 

you are her very image. He married her and was happy — 
but in one year she died, leaving him a precious legacy — you 
can guess what it was. A few days after this event, which 
nearly crushed the life from his heart, he received a summons 
to attend the death-bed of his father, whom a consumption was 
slowly destroying. He obeyed ; but wishing to conceal the 
secret of his marriage forever from his friends, he left his little 
babe to the care of my mother, whom he had heard spoken of 
in terms of high commendation, and vi^here he thought she 
would be secure from the vanities and follies which would 
surround her in the world ; yet, wishing to preserve his own 
name and condition a secret, he setit a faithful messenger to 
deposit you somewhere about the premises, and to remain in 
the vicinity long enough to be certain that the request of the 
note was complied with. He then returned to England, and 
renewed his promise to his dying father to marry Lady Emily, 
Avhich promise was fulfilled one year after. He lived very 
happily with this lady, notwithstanding his sorrow for his lost 
bride, save the painful remembrance of his little Eleonora. 
At length, as the twelve years were vanished that he had prom- 
ised should bring him to claim her, he confessed the event of 
his former marriage to his wife, and begged her affection for 
his little forsaken child. The tender woman forgave the 
deception, and having no child of her own, very gladly accepted 
his proposal to accompany him to America, in search of her. 
His lady, however, was taken ill just as they were in readi- 
ness to embark, and a month after he laid her in the tomb, 
with grief almost as acute as that which visited him in his 
first affliction. He had but one tie now that bound him to 
earth, — the hope of finding you, sweet sister. He arrived at 
America just thirteen years after he had left you with my 
mother — but what was his despair to learn that you too, the 
last of his treasures, was in the grave — that Mary Hale had 
shortly after returned to the world, and pined away with very 
grief, till she, too, rested in the same sleep. Your father was, 
by this intelligence, sunk into the deepest despair, and it was 
at this era that I first formed an acquaintance with him. I 
had been brought up by an aunt, the only relation I possessed 



284 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

in the world, except my mother, and I could consider her no 
relative, for I had never heard a w^ord from her, and knew not 
with what society of Shakers she had connected herself — she 
having kept that matter a secret. My profession had been the 
result of a natural talent, which exhibited itself in my earliest 
years, and'was encouraged and fostered by my indulgent aunt, 
~ as long as she remained to watch over me, and by her death, 
I became heir to her little competency which enabled me to 
improve my taste in a considerable degree. I was engaged in 
the exercise of my art in the city of Boston, when I met, and 
became interested in your father. The interest soon became 
mutual. He learned that I was the son of the patroness of his 
little Eleonora, and he clung to me as the fragment of some- 
thing dear to him. He was the first who informed me of the 
death of my mother — but the intelligence caused me little 
grief. I knew nothing of her, personally ; but my aunt, who 
looked upon her as a monster of depravity, for having deserted 
and broken the heart of her husband, my aunt's only brother, 
had represented her to me as a cold, bigoted devotee, destitute 
of natural affection, and regardless of her son as though no tie 
of consanguinity had ever existed between us. Every day 
strengthened Mr. Davenport's affection for me, and at length 
he offered me his home and all his possessions if I would 
become a son to him and bear his name. Could I reject so 
kind a parent ? Five years have now passed since this con- 
nection was formed, and it has been one of unmingled happi- 
ness on my part, and of peace and tranquil enjoyment on his. 
I have continued in the exercise of my profession as before, 
for to relinquish that would be to relinquish the chief enjoy-- 
ment of life, — and in pursuance of themes for this exercise, I 
a few months since obtained his permission to traverse the 
western country, and gaze upon its rich forests and noble 
waters. Somewhere in this vicinity I was startled by the 
mention of your name. A gentleman was recommending 
Lake Eleonora to my attention as a subject well worth an 
artist's pencil — and as a prelude to his description of its 
beauty, he gave me a slight sketch of its discovery, and the 
origin of its name. You may judge of my surprise at learn- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 



285 



ing your existence in this distant country — for of your iden- 
tity with the lost daughter of my best friend, I had little doubt ; 
yet, to satisfy myself beyond the possibility of mistake, ere I 
awakened the hopes of your father, I resolved to see you with 
my own eyes, and be assured of the fact. For this purpose, I 
introduced myself to elder Nathan, under plea of taking a 
sketch of the lake, and at the first view of you in the arbor, 
I recognized the daughter of our father's first bride. But my 
mother I did not so readily identify. The falsity of the tale 
respecting yourself, made me doubt the report of my mother's 
death, and the faintness that attacked her when *her eye fell 
upon a miniature of my own father, which lay among other 
papers in my portfolio, first awakened my suspicions. But in 
vain did I scrutinize her countenance, as she lay so pale and 
lifeless upon the floor, to recognize one lineament like those 
the artist had delineated upon the canvass in my possession, 
and which I had studied much, as one of the finest specimens 
of the art. In vain did I seek to find some vestige of that 
majestic beauty in the sallow complexion, withered cheek, and 
sunken eyes of the being at my feet. The plain close cap, in 
lieu of the glossy braids she wore in her youth, the white 
'kerchief where jewels had rested, in short, the tout ensemble 
was so very different I could find no food for my strongest 
suspicions. But yesterday, when her eye was lit with mater- 
nal love, and her cheek glowed with the fire of the soul, 1 
could, after many searching glances, perceive a resemblance to 
the portrait of my mother; and then her own countenance 
showed that she recognized her son ; but I feared that her 
attachment to her faith was too strong to suffer her to avow 
the truth to me, and I was not a little surprised as well as 
overjoyed by her voluntary declaration of our relationship, and 
solemn recantation of the vows that had so long caused her to 
deny it. Forgive me for having detained you thus long. 
Permit me, dear sister, to hope that we shall soon meet agam, 
never to be parted. Farewell," he whispered, pressing her 
little hand to his lips, " farewell ! May angels guard you !" 

" Farewell ! " she replied, and turned away with tearful 
eyes. 



286 PEOSE SELECTIONS. 

:^ * * # # # * 

Our readers have been with us a long, circuitous path, and 
perhaps have found the journey frequently dull and tedious ; 
but they have arrived at the last scene now ; and say, dear 
readers, is it not a pleasant home ? The parlor is richly fur- 
nished, and its decorations are such as bespeak its occupants 
beings of taste and refinement. The representatives of the 
nine Muses are there, in their rarest and sweetest personations, 
and the large, magnificent windows open upon one of the 
loveliest scenes in the world. The Hudson flows somewhat 
restlessly among the picturesque highlands just in front, and 
the last bright rays of the setting sun stream in upon the 
auburn curls of a fair young mother, and change their soft hue 
to a radiant gold. A hue, " like the soft pink tint of an Indian 
shell," is lighting upon the lily whiteness of her cheek, as she 
bends delighted over the smiling seraph in her arms. That 
beautiful mother is Eleonora Davenport — once Eleonora, the 
Shake ress — still as fair, as meek, as happy, as when, in her 
maiden days, she hid her ringlets in a coif, and wore a scanty 
robe, far less becoming than the snowy muslin that now 
enfolded her more fully developed form. Behind her chair, 
with his hand half hid among-her rich tresses, stood her father, 
a fine-looking man, who was seldom more than a yard distant 
from his daughter, and who was alternately bestowing his 
caresses upon the mother and his happy grandchild. In a 
chair, by the side of his young wife, sat Charles Davenport, 
resting his elbow upon his easel, where was spread out the 
half-finished portrait of his little laughing Emily, forgetting 
his task in his admiration of those living pictures, so much 
lovelier than human hand can delineate — and just a yard or 
two in front, sat another figure to complete the group ; it is 
our friend Mary — but who would recognize her in the meta- 
morphosis ? Her plain muslin cap had been displaced for a 
lace one with a full frill and white bow ; a richness had been 
imparted to her noble brow by a fold of jet-black hair — no 
matter if it be false, since time had bleached the original 
tresses, which had not yet regained any considerable portion 
of their natural length — and her former white summer garb 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 287 

is supplied by a dark silk, with a large pelerine and square 
muslin collar. 

The door opened, and a servant ushered in an old man 
dressed in black, and wearing- a white broad-brimmed hat. 
He approached the group a few yards, and paused without 
speaking. Mary took off her spectacles, wiped them with her 
handkerchief, and replaced them, peering all the while very 
earnestly at the stranger. Old Mr. Davenport bowed, Charles 
rose and offered a chair, but Eleonora, dropping her babe in 
her husband's arms, sprang forward and grasped the old man's 
hand, exclaiming, "Why Nathan, dear, dear Nathan, is it 
you ? " 

" Nathan ! elder Nathan ! " was echoed on every hand — 
whilst Nathan's arms were round Eleonora's neck, and the 
tears streaming down his cheeks as though he were a child. 
" How did you come here ?" she exclaimed, as soon as he had 
released her, to grasp Mary's extended hand. " How did you 
come all this long way in your old age, and so changed too ! " 
glancing at his attire. 

" How came I here ?" he replied ; " do you think old Nathan 
could remain longer in the desolate nest, when his prettiest 
bird was flown — and his mate too — the faithful mate of 
many years?" shaking Mary's hand till it ached with the 
hearty pressure. " Nay ! God forbid that my last days should 
be spent away from my soul's dearest treasures ! I have come 
to make my home with Eleonora." 

" Right welcome ! dear, kind Nathan," she replied ; and 
the friendly word was responded by every voice, "Welcome, 
right welcome ! " 

1837. 

THE RUSTIC WIFE. 

" There is no feminine grace so perfectly enchanting as a 
cultivated intellect," said Laurine Seton, to his lovely com- 
panion, who was sitting silently by his side after the departure 
of visitors, with her elbow resting on the arm of the sofa, and 
her head languidly reposing upon her little hand. It was a 



288 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

very beautiful head, high, a la Grecque, and covered with rich 
brown curls, which hung with a shadowy grace about her 
white throat, and fell droopingly around a pair of splendid 
eyes, — such eyes as carry within them fathomless fountains 
of love and poetry. 

She turned with a sweet look of affection toward her hus- 
band, when he spoke, and something like a sigh stole silently 
from her parted lips. " You are thinking of Madeline Leigh : 
she is very accomplished." 

" Yes, and very talented. What a perfect fascination there 
is in her conversation ! she leads mind and heart captive, even 
against one's will. In mental cultivation she surpasses any 
woman I ever knew, and yet she is young, not passing twen- 
ty-five, I presume." 

" Did she carry your heart captive, dearest ?" said the gentle 
wife, drawing closely to his side, and turning her radiant eyes 
upon his with a most earnest tenderness. " Is it not still 
mine, simple and uncultivated as I am ? Laurine, do not 
yet tire of me ! " 

" Tire of you ! my love," he exclaimed, folding her to his 
heart ; " O never ! You are very dear, my sweet Claribel, 
very ; but you have not all of Miss Leigh's intellectual accom- 
plishments ; few have : yet not less do I love you for that. 
You have a sweeter temper, a more loving and generous heart, 
a more angel-like beauty ; and even Madeline Leigh, with all 
her brilliant talents and glowing eloquence, has not such fresh, 
pure fountains of poetry in her heart as my own gentle Claribel. 
So do not fear that I do not yet love you as fondly as ever." 

" But, my husband, you must often painfully feel my de- 
ficiencies of education, when companies of your intellectual 
friends are around you, when they attempt to converse with 
me, and find me so ignorant of all subjects of literature. O 
Laurine ! I have felt that I would go back to my mountain- 
home, and live once more with those with whom I was born, 
and who are as simple and ignorant as myself. You then 
would be spared the mortification you now endure, and 1 
should be happy in one thought at least, — that you were not 
obliged to blush for me." 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 289 

" Clari ! this is not well in you. Would you leave me, 
then, now, when I most deeply, most entirely love you ? Is 
your mountain-home dearer to you than to live with and for 
me ? Have I ever treated you coldly, or as though I were 
ashamed of you ? O, could you know, my love, how proud I 
have been of your beauty and sweetness, and artless grace, 
could you know how all your winning simplicity has been 
admired, and all your timid enthusiasm loved in my inner 
heart, you would not, could not, doubt me thus." 

" 0, I don't doubt you, I don't, any longer, love," softly 
murmured the beautiful being, twining her arm about his 
neck ; " but you know so much, and I so little — " She could 
not finish her words, for her lips found themselves held in 
captivity. 

" Say no more, Clari : I ask no charms sweeter than those 
that make you already too bewitching. Pray sing to me now, 
if you are not too weary, that little song you were warbling 
this morning." 

" Well, let me have my lips again, and I will sing," she 
whispered, blushing softly ; " but, O, you have made my heart 
beat so — " 

"How, love?" 

" You should not let me know how you love me, when you 
wish me to sing. Turn away your eyes, Laurine, then I will 
try." 

She attempted one or -two lines in vain. Her voice was 
lost in the sweet emotions which his tender caresses had ex- 
cited. " I am sorry I cannot sing to please you, but you see 
it is impossible. Shall I repeat the lines to you ? and after- 
ward perhaps I can sing them." 

" Yes, dear, repeat them ; do." 

Her voice was very tremulous, but her enunciation very soft 
and tender, and she looked up into his eyes with unutterable 
thought and feeling while she repeated the lines which follow : 

Come away, love, come away ! 

In the fountains stars are beaming 
Like the thoughts within thine eye : 

Moonlight on the lake is dreaming ; 
25 



290 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Shadows round its borders lie ; 

On the hill 

The air lies still : 
Gentle love, O come away ! 

Come away, love, come away ! 

Come where folded flowers are sleeping, 
With their holy thoughts shut in ; 
Where the solemn air is weeping 
Tears above a world of sin ; 
Where the rose 
Finds sweet repose : 
Gentle love, O come away ! 

Come away, love, come away I 

Where the smile of God descending, 
Glorifies the listening air, 

There, upon the turf low bending. 
We will breathe a silent prayer, — 
Thou for me. 
And I for thee : 
Gentle love, O come away ! 

"Thank you, Clari. Whose song is that? Where did 
you find it ? " 

Claribel blushed, and faltered a little ; then, hiding her face 
on his bosom, answered, " In my own heart, dearest. Now 
don't laugh at me. I know it is very simple, but you love me 
too well to chide me for my foolish fondness." 

" Chide you, dear Claribel ! I have never yet half ap- 
preciated you. I see there is a fountain of soul within you 
I have never known before. These gifts of yours must be 
cultivated. Will it not be pleasant for you to spend some 
hours of every day in study ?" 

" O Laurine ! vsrith you for my tutor ! Bless you. I will 
go and get my books this moment." 

" Not to-night," said the delighted husband, smiling, and 
parting the bright curls from her beautiful eyes ; " not to- 
night : these sweet eyes need sleep and rest : to-morrow shall 
it not be, love ? " 

" Just when you will, only let it be soon." 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 291 

Claribel scarcely slept at all that night ; but as she rested 
quietly upon her pillow, sweet dreams of the future passed 
through her brain, receiving from love and poetry hues all 
coleur de rose, and seeming so real in their beauty that she 
almost deemed them prophetic of blessedness to come. The 
doubts and apprehensions which had haunted her so long, 
and disturbed the serenity of her affections with their cold, 
portending shadows, had passed suddenly away, and the 
sunny beams of unclouded joy shone deeply down into the 
fountains of her spirit. 

She felt the fluttering wing of a rich genius half-poised in 
those sunbeams, and she knew it had strength to soar aloft 
through the boundless heavens ; she knew she could yet 
become the companion of her husband's intellect, as she had 
long been of his heart ; and that those who had once smiled 
at her ignorance, would yet be pleased to share her inter- 
course. She loved her husband with a degree of affection 
passing into idolatry ; and he deserved it all, for he had taken 
her from her rustic home, where she was wasting her sweet- 
ness among the rude and ignorant people of a vicious neigh- 
borhood, and brought her into the refinement and elegancies 
of cultivated society ; and there he had cherished her tender- 
ly, and loved her in all her simplicity and untutored intelli- 
gence, better than he loved aught else on earth. 

When the morning dawned, and the first song of the little 
canary broke the stillness of the house, she arose softly from 
her bed, and hastily executing her simple morning toilet, stole 
down into the library before any of the household were awake. 
It was an elegant little apartment, and everything within it 
was arranged with taste and neatness. She threw open the 
eastern windows and blinds, and let in the light of the golden 
dawn. The air was warm and bland. It came from a garden 
of acacias and rose-trees, scented with all their sweets, and 
passed into the spirit of the young wife with a power to ele- 
vate and awaken all the rich melodies of her being. She took 
up a book that lay near her. It was a volume of Mrs. Hemans' 
lyrics. She had read them a great deal since her marriage, 
but had never dared speak of them to her husband, lest she 



292 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

should commit some error of taste. She knew that she loved 
them to excess, but she did not know that he, too, loved them ; 
and he had so cultivated and so exquisite a perception of poetic 
beauty, she feared he would blush at her simple preferences. 
He was not in the habit of conversing with her about books, 
for he knew that the wildwood range of her education had led 
her simply to objects of perception. She had not been accus- 
tomed to the silent companionship of abstract thought, and 
could, therefore, have no taste for other poetry than the mur- 
mur of running brooks, or the hum of a roving bee. 

He thought all this, and though he often, very often, felt 
her deficiencies of mental culture, he sedulouly avoided any 
allusion that could bring a shade upon her sensitive spirit. 
It did not occur to him, perhaps, that he might be her teacher, 
that he might easily win her mind to a love and correct ap- 
preciation of literature. He had waited for some evidences 
of an inward capability ; and she, poor girl, though she read, 
and thought, and felt, dared not speak, lest she should commit 
some blunder, or betray her simplicity. He had never alluded 
to the subject of intellectual accomplishments, save in a casual 
and impersonal manner, and she supposed he deemed her in- 
capable of mental improvement. The timidity of a love that 
felt itself wanting the links of the mind, though the ties of the 
heart were strong, kept them reserved upon all points in which 
they felt no assurance of a mutual sympathy. 

Deep as was Claribel's joy when the subject was at last 
introduced, and she had confessed all her doubts, and fears, 
and wishes, she could not have felt a sweeter relief than that 
experienced by her husband when he found that she had both 
desires and capacities for literary attainments. He knew — 
he had long known — that she had quick and beautiful per- 
ceptions of things in the material world ; that there were 
fountains of poetry in her heart, deep and full of hallowed 
feeling; that her mind was delicate and high-toned — he 
could not have loved her had it been otherwise — but he did 
not know all that he at this time discovered ; he did not know 
that her mind had creative as well as perceptive faculties ; that, 
all untaught as her genius was, it could already breathe itself 
out in music and sweetness. 



PllOSE SELECTIONS. 293 

He rebuked himself for his long neglect ; for his unwar- 
ranted doubt of her mental capacities ; and, in atonement, he 
resolved to bestow all his leisure hours in assisting and revis- 
ing her studies. He heard her steal away from her repose at 
an early hour, and was impatient to be with her in her new 
pursuits. Of all things that enchanted him, he loved best 
her sweet enthusiasm. It would be such a delight to him to 
witness her flushing cheek and glistening eye, to hear the de- 
licious tones of her all-expressive voice — ah ! he could not 
stay to anticipate ; he was too eager to enjoy the reality. 

The door of the library was partly open, and through it 
came the sweet music of that thrilling poem of Mrs. Hemans, 
" Genius singing to Love." He paused awhile to listen. 
Could it indeed be his own Claribel pouring forth such a flood 
of soul in the simple recital of poetry ? Her voice, with all 
its sweet peculiarities of intonation and depth, seemed fraught 
with influences never felt before. The music of the mind was 
there, and all the deep, deep heart : it was, indeed, in her 
voice, genius singing to love. 

Her husband passed silently into the apartment, and came 
and stood, unobserved, behind her chair. Breathless with 
feeling, his heart melted with the emotions which she excited : 
he waited, with folded arms, till she had finished the poem ; 
then, stooping gently over her, he put his arms about her neck, 
and stopped her hasty exclamation with an impassioned kiss. 

They were happy, entirely happy, in the communion of 
thought and feeling ; and the hours passed quickly away, 
winged with sunbeams. That day, and other days, went by, 
and Claribel studied, and thought, and wrote, and delighted 
her husband all he could desire, with her rapid improvement. 
But the clouds came at last. Mr. Seton received a deputa- 
tion from the American government to England. It was 
unsolicited and, consequently, unexpected to him. But the 
embassy was one of honor and pecuniary consideration, and, 
moreover, offered him an advantage he had long desired, — 
that of becoming acquainted with the people and institutions 
of England. Only one consideration caused him to hesitate, 
— Claribel could not accompany him. 
25* 



294 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

But with the wonted generosity of her nature, she entreated 
him to go. She would make herself happy in his absence, by 
believing that good would accrue to him ; and though she 
must necessarily suffer many anxieties for his sake, and should 
feel herself lonely and without sympathy while he was away, 
yet all these feelings should be subdued by the reflection that 
greater blessings would be theirs in the end. But she en- 
treated long, and persuaded much, before she was successful. 

" I tell you> dear Laurine, how it shall be. I will go and 
live with your aunt Welden till your return, and will become 
a little rustic again, as when you first knew me ; and I dare 
say when you return from the court of her majesty, you will 
be so wearied with refinement and etiquette, that you will 
admire my rural simplicity more than ever. I will live there, 
with dear, good annt Welden, and shall be very happy among 
the birds and flowers ; and you will write to me very often, 
and — 0, dear Laurine, do say you will go !" 

The tears stood in her beautiful eyes all the while she was 
pleading with him, but a sweet smile was upon her lips, 
and a plaintive tenderness in her voice ; and the more she 
entreated him to heed his own interests more than her com- 
panionship, the more reluctant he felt to part from her. But 
he did go at last, and she retired to the habitation of a good 
old aunt of his, some distance back in the country, and prepared 
to make herself contented during his term of legation. 

There was a firm resolve in her heart, instead of yielding 
to vain regrets and idle despondency, to make this period of 
her life useful to herself, and, in the end, gratifying to him for 
whom alone she lived, and felt, and prayed so much. She 
had her books conveyed to her rustic residence ; and for a 
companion and assistant in her studies, she took with her a 
young lady to whom she had recently become fondly attached, 
and who had met with misfortunes, which left her dependent 
upon her own exertions for a livelihood. By this means, 
Claribel not only secured for herself a gentle and aflfectionate 
tutor and friend, but provided a pleasant and honorable home 
for an unfriended and destitute orphan. 

All these plans, however, were kept secret from her hus- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 295 

band. She had formed a feminine project to surprise and 
delight him with her anticipated improvements. This little 
scheme was the strength and the joy of her heart in its trials ; 
and everything favored its accomplishment. The residence 
of Mrs. Welden was retired and peaceful almost as a hermit's 
cell. The old lady had no family, save an only son, a lad of 
eighteen summers ; and her own habits were peculiarly do- 
mestic and unobtrusive. The following letter from Claribel 
to her husband will better describe the home she had chosen, 
and some of her methods of wiling away the time, than any 
attempts of our own. It contained all she chose to reveal of 
her daily occupations. 

"My beloved Husband, — Here I have been rusticating 
(a necessary operation for me to undergo !) for nearly a month, 
and have utterly neglected giving you a description of the way 
we do things at aunt Welden's renowned establishment. O 
dear ! you have no idea how happy we are. Here we live in 
a little white house, which has four rooms on the floor, and 
two chambers. Aunt Welden occupies the kitchen and bed- 
room ; then the dining-room is for us all, and the parlor 
exclusively for Marion Lee and a certain little rustic of your 
acquaintance. ' And pray who is Marion Lee ? ' you will ask. 
Did not you hear me speak of her, shortly before you left, as 
a very interesting young lady ? Lest you may have forgot- 
ten, let me give you a sketch. She is one year older than 
your Clari, a venerable maiden of eighteen, and an orphan. 
She was educated at considerable expense, and, from her in- 
fancy to womanhood, has been accustomed to the luxuries of 
wealth, and the elegancies of cultivated society. But one of 
those mysterious dispensations of Providence, such as raised 
me from poverty and utter ignorance to be the wife of Laurine 
Seton, Esq., the gifted, elegant, accomplished Laurine Seton, 
has brought her down to destitution, to toil for her daily bread. 
I loved her, Laurine, and I felt what a comfort and consolation 
her society would be to me while you were far away. So, 
partly to relieve her from want, and partly to be a companion 
for myself, I prevailed on her to share my hermitage. O, she 



296 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

is a sweet girl, — this dear Marion of mine ! She partly 
realizes my idea of an angel. Her form is slight and grace- 
ful, her motions exceedingly animated, her limbs moulded to 
perfect symmetry, and, pervading all, there is a certain spirit- 
uality, which makes you feel yourself in holy presence. Her 
face, too, is very beautiful. I cannot describe her classically, 
but I can tell you that she has very large, clear eyes, of a ce- 
lestial blue, and hair floating about her temples like sunbeams. 
Her voice, too, is low and soft, and she sings like a robin. But 
all her outward charms are lost in the fascinations of her sweet 
temper and loving heart. O, Laurine ! I know you would love 
her. Are you not glad I have found so gentle and affectionate 
a friend ? 

" Well, Marion and I have delightful rambles in the wood- 
lands and over the hills. We have formed acquaintance with 
all the squirrels and woodpeckers that are to be found ; and 
even the flowers seem to recognize us, and to smile at our 
approach. Sometimes, to vary our amusements, and do a 
little kindness to our fellow-creatures, we visit the dwellings 
of the poor and the sick, and aid them as they have need. 
Sometimes, too, Marion and I have a fine frolic with aunt 
Welden over the churn. It is a famous exercise ; and aunt 
Welden does us the compliment to say that her butter is never 
so sweet as when she has the assistance of two sweet girls of 
her household. 

" You ask me if I write poetry now-a-days. Poetry, for- 
sooth ! Now you didnt mean to laugh at me, did you? No, 
Laurine ; my foolish rhyming habit is getting cured in your 
absence, and I am returning to the plain prose of ordinary 
chitchat. Marion and I are great chatterboxes ; and sometimes 
I get a little beyond the ' land of prose,' when talking to her 
of you. She is a little fountain of poetry herself; and, if 
ever she gets in love, she will outpoetize Sappho ! Pray, am I 
not becoming very classic ? I half fancy, my love, that I see a 
shade creeping over your brow, and hear you murmur, ' How 
can Claribel write so gayly while I am away ? ' Dear Lau- 
rine ! the tears are stealing down my cheeks all the while I 
am writing to you ; but, at the same time, the employment 
exhilarates my spirits, and makes me wild with joy. 



J 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 297 

" Do not forget me, dearest, among the many beautiful and 
accomplished ladies you meet in London. When you return, 
you shall teach me to know what they know, and do as they 
do. What a sweet little plan we had formed just before you 
were called away ! How much I was going to learn, and how 
proud you were going to be of my accomplishments ! Those 
bright visions have all passed away ; but when you are once 
more at our dear little home, and I am there at your side, we 
will renew those pleasant dreams, — will we not, love ? 

" It is now two months since you left me ; in ten more you 
will return. Dear, dear Laurine, you will make those long 
months happy to me by frequent letters, — will you not ? 
And, if you love me, guard your own peace. I have a thou- 
sand fears for you ; but I trust in Heaven. Thanks, ten thou- 
sand thanks, for the precious faith you taught me. It is my 
strength and my joy in all trials ; and it will sustain me when 
everything else is gone, — even, Laurine, your own idolized 
self! 

" It is a beautiful evening, dearest ; would you were here 

to walk with me. We would wander along the banks of the 

little murmuring brook, where the moonbeams are gilding the 

waves, and you should talk to me sweetly, as you used to do, 

of love, and heaven, and all celestial things. Marion has just 

entered the room, and gently entreated me to ramble with her. 

I cannot deny the dear girl, and so will close this poor letter, 

with a promise soon to send you a longer and better one. 

Dearest Laurine, I remain, as ever, vour o\vn „ 

•' Clakibel." 

Time passed onward, and the young wife progressed rapidly 
in her studies. Not all the warnings and entreaties of Marion 
could wile her a day from her books ; nay, nor scarcely an 
hour. Her cheek grew pale, and her form shadowy ; yet 
every day found her more ardently devoted to literature. 
Neither did she neglect the lighter accomplishments. Music 
was an inspiration with her. A very few lessons made her 
mistress of the piano ; and daily practice gave a finish and 
delicate spirit to her performance rarely excelled even by 
professors. 



298 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Poetry was her favorite study. The works of the great 
masters became familiar to her as household words. Her ex- 
ceedingly retentive memory enabled her, with very little care, 
to repeat a thousand beautiful passages, even after long inter- 
vals ; and characters and scenes were embodied in her imagi- 
nation with a striking individuality and life-like distinctness. 

Marion marvelled at her powers. Many years of study 
under the most finished masters, had not led her further into 
the fields of science and literature, than a few months had suf- 
ficed to do with Claribel. But Claribel was gifted by nature 
with the most acute perceptive faculties, and knowledge came 
to her almost by inspiration. Like Miranda, she had " a good 
will to it ;" and this made the most intense application easy 
and pleasant. 

When winter came, with his storms and gloom, and laid 
waste the woodlands and valleys, Claribel grew weary of her 
unbroken seclusion, and, accompanied by Marion,, her insep- 
arable friend, removed to New York. Her principal object, 
however, was to avail herself of the assistance of instruction 
Marion was not qualified to give. About a month after their 
arrival in the city, a young gentleman called to deliver Clari- 
bel a letter from her husband. It contained intelligence of 
great interest to her. We will look over her shoulder while 
she reads. — 



"My dear Claribel, — The embassy with which I am 
charged is delivered, but not accepted ; and circumstances, 
which I cannot here explain, will retard the accomplishment 
of my business at least six months. But, my love, we must 
not be thus long separated. I have made arrangements with 
the bearer of this letter, — Willis Farley, an old college-friend 
of mine, and a noble fellow, too, — I have made arrangements 
with him to bring you to me on his return next April. That 
will be even better than to come home to you ; for now we 
can see England together. Perhaps you can prevail on your 
friend Marion to be your companion. At all events, be sure 
that she is provided with a situation suited to her merits ; and 
when we are once more established in our own dear home, 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 299 

she shall make a flower in our family wreath. Mr. Farley 
will inform you of the arrangements I have made for you ; 
and I trust, my precious one, that no obstacles will keep you 
from me. The ladies of my acquaintance, in London, often 
ask me concerning my wife. You will admire many of them 
exceedingly. — But Farley waits. I can only say, come, and 
God bless you ! Laitrine Seton." 

Claribel's joy was greater than we can express. She 
laughed and wept alternately over the letter, and even forgot 
her studies in the wildness of her emotions. But she forgot 
them not long ; for the anticipation of shortly meeting her 
husband, and being introduced by him into the higher circles 
of London society, was a new incitement to make herself 
worthy of her station. Yet never was a secret more sedu- 
lously kept than hers. Even Willis Farley, who became a 
frequent visitor during the winter, knew her only in her 
character of untutored simplicity. He was pleased with her 
winning grace, and impressed with her beauty; but some- 
times he could not but feel there must be many mortifications 
in reserve for his friend Seton, in bringing such a little speci- 
men of rusticity into association with the educated and refined, 
with whom he mingled. He contrasted her with Marion Lee, 
who, though somewhat less beautiful, yet pretty, exceedingly, 
was eminently accomplished in all intellectual graces. He 
contrasted her with Marion Lee ; but was he an impartial 
judge ? Claribel, willing as she ever was to be depreciated, 
or rather to have those she loved commended above her, would 
have answered, with a roguish smile, " No." 

When Claribel first proposed to Marion to be her com- 
panion to England, she acceded to the request with gratitude 
and pleasure. But in a few weeks she began to grow restive, 
when the subject was discussed, and at last made known her 
determination to remain behind. In vain Claribel besought 
her reasons. She would only blush, and turn away, to hide 
her tears. But her friend was not quite blind. She deter- 
mined to consult Mr. Farley. At his next visit, which was 
not long deferred, when Marion was absent from the room, 
she introduced the subject. 



300 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

" So it seems, Mr. Farley, that I am to go to England un- 
attended by my friend." 

Willis started and blushed. " How so, Mrs. Seton ? " 

" She refuses to accompany me ; and my most urgent solici- 
tations avail nothing. I never knew Marion obstinate before." 

" Does she assign no reasons ?" 

" Her only answer is a blush or a tear, and a shake of the 
head. I wish you would endeavor to change her determina- 
tion. I should, indeed, be very grateful. I am sure you 
would be successful." 

Willis looked at her earnestly. There was an arch smile 
playing about her mouth ; but truth and sincerity were also 
there. He blushed a little. 

" I wish I also were sure. Where is Marion ? May I go 
to her?" 

" I think you will find her in the library. Yes, go to her ; 
persuade her ; I know you can." 

" Thank you, my dear Mrs, Seton. I cannot be so sanguine, 
though you have inspired a hope." 

He opened the door into the library. Marion sat with her 
face buried in her hand. Tears were trickling through her 
small white fingers. Willis hesitated a moment. In another 
moment he was at her side. One little hand lay idly in her 
lap. He ventured to make it a prisoner. It was patient in 
its captivity ; and he pressed it to his heart. 

" Marion," he murmured gently, '■'■dear Marion." She did 
not speak, but trembled like an aspen. " Dearest, best be- 
loved ! will you not speak to me ?" The tears streamed more 
freely down her cheeks, and sobbing painfully, she hid her 
face on his bosom. He asked no more — what lover would ? 
— but, clasping his arms about her, breathed in her ear his 
first, deep, fervent, subduing words of love. 

Claribel awaited the termination of the conference with a 
light heart. She loved her friend's happiness almost as much 
as her own. Indeed, it made a part of her own. Marion did 
not return to the drawing-room for nearly an hour after Willis 
had left her. When she did return, one glance at her trans- 
parent countenance assured Claribel that all was well. It was 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 301 

radiant with joy and gratitude. There was a tremulousness 
in her voice, too, when she spoke, which revealed the sweet 
agitation of her heart. Claribel forbore to disturb her silent 
consciousness by a word or look. Her own experience had 
taught her how sweet it is to lock some joys entirely within 
one's own bosom. 

The following morning, however, when they were standing 
together in a little alcove filled with rare plants, Marion sud- 
denly inquired, "What will become of our flowers, Claribel, 
while we are in England ? " 

" We ! " exclaimed Claribel, laughing, and shaking her head. 
"Ah, Marion ! I fear you are becoming sadly fickle. We, in 
England ! No, dear, you are to stay and take care of the 
plants ; I, alone, am to accompany Mr. Farley." 

There was a brilliant coterie of wits and geniuses assembled 
one evening at Lady D.'s, in London. She was one of the 
most popular ladies in the metropolis, and a great patroness 
of literature. Her house was the resort of the great and 
gifted, and on this evening she had given a party with a view 
to collect them in honor of a favorite friend, — Laurine Seton, 
and his beautiful wife. Many of the most lovely women of 
the city were there, and the young American bride was 
expected, with no little interest. At length the door was 
thrown open, and Mr. Seton and lady, and Mr. Farley and 
lady, were announced. 

Lady D. rose to welcome them. Claribel came forward, 
leaning on her husband's arm, and looking very, very beauti- 
ful. She was dressed with elegant symplicity, and there was 
a winning and indescribable grace in her mien and manners, 
which was as neio as it was enchanting. She returned the 
salutations of the company with ease and modesty, and sur- 
prised her husband by her dignified assurance and self-posses- 
sion. There was a little fluttering about his heart when he 
saw the obvious admiration she excited, and a half sigh 
escaped his lips, when he remembered how little qualified she 
was to retain anything more than that excited by her native 
gifts and graces. He would willingly have excused himself 
26 



302 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

from attendance at this soiree, but as it was intended for an 
express honor to himself and lady, he could find no plausible 
apology for absence. 

His heart sunk, when he saw Lady D. draw up her chair, 
and open a conversation with his wife. He removed his seat 
to her side, in hopes to be of assistance. Claribel looked up 
at him, and smiled a little roguishly. He did not comprehend 
the smile, but he soon found that his presence was not needed 
as an assistance. He became a silent auditor. Lady D. 
commenced by asking Claribel questions about American au- 
thors, — their characters and habits of life. Claribel answered 
satisfactorily, and ventured some very sweet and appropriate 
remarks upon the trials and discouragements attendant upon 
authorship in a new country, like America, and of the many 
temptations and allurements which the offices and partisan- 
ships of a democratic government were continually offering to 
wile them from the thankless toils of literature. 

From authors, they passed naturally to their productions, 
with which Claribel discovered herself familiar, and instituted 
some very original and very striking comparisons between the 
works of her countrymen and those of British authors. From 
American literature they gracefully and unwittingly entered 
the domains of the old world, pausing not with Scott, and By- 
ron, and Wordsworth, but crossing the channel to France, and 
from thence passing to the land of Goethe and Schiller. 

Whatever subject they touched upon, Claribel expressed 
herself modestly and gracefully. There was no display, no 
visible consciousness of success ; but her sweet perceptions 
and peculiar eloquence were appreciated, and silently admired. 
The gentlemen were not slow to estimate her accomplish- 
ments. They gradually joined in the conversation, till Clari- 
bel found herself surrounded by many of the most remarkable 
men of the day, Marion, too, received a share of admiration, 
though she had less of genius to fascinate. She was less en- 
thusiastic, and less easily excited ; but beneath a very quiet 
exterior, as is usually the case, were buried fountains of deep 
and fervent feeling. 

Claribel was in conversation with M . He made some 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 303 

remark which he attempted to verify by an Italian quotation. 
Her husband's surprise must be imagined when he heard her 
refuting the sentiment hidden from himself by a language to 
which he possessed no key ; and, directly afterward, she was 
quoting Madame de Stael in the original ! He understood, 
now, the little ruse she had been playing, and was deeply 
affected by this expressive token of her love. He longed to 
be near to her once more, and to whisper his gratitude in 
her ear. 

Toward the last hours of the evening, a call was made for 
music. Claribel had an early invitation from many voices, 
but distrusting the composure of her nerves, after so much 
unusual excitement as she had recently experienced, she ear- 
nestly declined. But entreaties were renewed ; and, after 
listening awhile to a variety of skilful performers, she suf- 
fered herself to be led to the piano. The first piece she 
attempted was by a celebrated composer, then present ; and 
when she had finished it, he came to her, with sparkling eyes, 
and assured her that he felt himself exceedingly indebted; 
for never before had he heard one of his own productions ex- 
pressed with so perfect an individuality of melody, so to speak, 
as that she had honored by her performance. Other voices, 
too, applauded, but she heard them not ; she heard only a low 
sigh, breathed by one who stood at her side. She looked up, 
and encountered a flood of tenderness, from eyes whose light 
was the sunshine of her soul. She attempted to resign her 
seat ; but " One more, one more, Mrs. Seton," from many lips, 
withheld her. 

She hesitated a few moments, and then touching the keys 
very plaintively, she burst into a wild and tender melody, that 
brought tears to every eye. It was exquisitely simple, and 
new to every ear. No voice broke the silence for more than 
a minute after she had ceased. The composer at last spoke : 
" Pray tell us, Mrs. Seton, the author of that sweet, sweet 
thing." — " And of the words, of the words ! " exclaimed a poet 
of the company. Claribel blushed, and replied, " I cannot 
tell." "I can," gently interposed Marion ; "could any other 
than the author perform anything so exquisitely ? " 



304 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Every one looked gratified. Laurine was too happy to 
speak ; but, as he led her away from the piano, a silent 
pressure of the hand told her how deeply he was affected. 
" Laurine, forgive me," she whispered ; " I have intended no 
triumph, but I am happy, if a year's assiduous application 
has spared you one moment's mortification. I care for no 
approval, save for your gratification." " Dearest," he replied, 
" I do not yet half know you. I tremble to find how greatly 
you now excel all my fondest dreams of what I dared to hope 
you might be. To think of my little ' rustic wife ' becoming 
the star of London ! " 

1841. 



THE GOSSIPINGS OF IDLE HOURS. 

Hour First. — Well, this must be an idle afternoon, de- 
spite all my good will to industry. The spirit is willing, but 
the flesh is weak. This soft south wind, making dreamy 
melody among the branches of the elm that grows up at my 
window, has a strange mesmeric influence upon my nerves. 
My old, velvet-covered, {Tabby velvet, dear reader,) square- 
backed arm-chair, has such a winning aspect of repose, that 
in spite of a most womanly resistance, I have suffered myself 
at last to be received passively within its gentle, mahogany 
arms. Farewell, now, to needle, thimble, scissors, thread ; 
farewell to books, crayons, pictures, pens, and ink ; farewell 
to everything in the habitable universe save this most bewitch- 
ing, consummate repose. Even Thomson's Castle of Indo- 
lence could not be a more delicious retreat than this same 
little room of mine, and this luxurious green velvet arm-chair. 

" Whatever smacks of noyance, or unrest. 
Is far, far off expelled from this delicious nest." 

I have the greatest good will imaginable toward all the 
grand movements of the age ; but pardon me, dear reader, 
even a movement across this little apartment to-day, would be 
worse than a Catholic penance. Even the last work of Charles 
Dickens, (Heaven bless him !) lying on the window-seat be- 
side me, yet unread, has not power to tempt me from my 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 305 

Eden of rest, my dear little " Sleepy Hollow." Yet I do not 
wish to sleep. My thoughts were never more wakeful than 
now. Let me, therefore, gaze out upon these little street- 
scenes that are enacted so quietly before me, and I will gossip 
to you about them with my tongue, which is the only mem- 
ber at present capable of activity. 

The village road makes a graceful curve, and winds off 
from my sight behind a dell of tasselled willows ; but just at 
this point a branch of this same thoroughfare takes the aban- 
doned course of the old road, and at the very spot where the 
line of my vision terminates, makes another fork, and, with 
both arms, nearly surrounds our little cream-colored church. 
Opposite this chapel is the small village school-house. The 
scene is pretty. It has, at least, a rural look. 

Let us take a gossiping view of the passengers that trudge 
along this street. Emerging from behind the willow dell, I 
see the stooping figure of a " pack-pedlar." Like many a 
genteel " loafer," he carries all his wealth upon his back — 
and a ponderous load it seems. Step by step, he labors along 
the Avay. Now he ascends the grassy slope to our neighbor's 
dwelling, and rap, rap, rap, go his bony knuckles against the 
door. The mistress of the house appears. The positive 
shakes of her head are no rebuff to his earnest entreaties for 
her patronage. Down he tumbles his huge burthen upon the 
entry floor. Scarfs, veils, ribbons, laces, and jewels are tempt- 
ingly displayed. Seeing that these make no headway against 
her principles of economy, he begins next to unpack ninepen- 
ny-calicoes, spool-cotton, steel bodkins, assorted needles, hooks 
and eyes, etc., etc., etc., all of which are among the " vitist 
haves" of life. Finally, he prevails on her to take some little 
article named in his catalogue, and apparently satisfied with 
his luck, replaces his pack, makes a low, foreigner's bow, and 
departs. 

Hard as the labor of his way must be, doubtless his itin- 
erant life has many charms. If he has an eye open to the 
beauties of nature, he has opportunities of witnessing them in 
all their numerous varieties. Mountains and valleys, plains 
and woodlands, are traversed by his practised feet. He sees 
X>6^ 



306 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

the upspringing of the first violet by the road-side, and the 
last aster, that survives the blast of the northern wind, looks 
up to cheer him on his w^ay. By the shores of lakes and the 
banks of rivers, across wild brawling streams and through 
glens of softest green, he pursues his path, from village to 
village, seeking, like Bunyan's pilgrim, to ease himself of the 
burthen that weighs down his weary limbs. Human nature, 
too, he sees in every variety. Into every dwelling he finds 
admittance, and comes in contact with every form of human- 
ity. Many a family history does he store up in his mind, as 
year after year he takes his accustomed round. Many a 
humorous anecdote and romantic incident does he treasure 
up, to make food for thought when old age shall have put an 
interdict upon his laborious wanderings. But we must leave 
the poor pedlar to pursue his way, and recommend to such of 
our listeners as would know more of his itinerant profession, 
the beautiful delineations of Wordsworth, and of that sweet 
friend of ours, the author of the " Blind Pedlar." =^ 

The next figure in the landscape is that of a woman. We 
must gossip gently this time, for she is a poor, lone being 
who approaches — one to whom our gentle Lord might have 
said, " Neither do I condemn thee ; go and sin no more." 
The wind, filling her short, scarlet cloak, bears it out like a 
streamer behind ; her hood, also, of faded green silk, is blown 
back from her forehead, over which fall straggling locks of 
coal-black hair, rivalling in hue the eyes that roll beneath ; 
and upon her bare and brawny arm she bears a basket filled 
with cranberries, the harvest of her morning labors. The 
long strides that she takes soon diminish the • distance that 
lies between us ; she is crossing the door-yard now — is now 
beneath my window — looks up with a foolish simper, and 
salutes me with a low, girlish curtsey. 

Poor old Susey ! When I am eating the nice tarts made 
from those fresh spring cranberries, a thought shall stray to 
you in your far-off, lonely hut. But no ! I forget. The hut 
is in ruins now, and another home — the pauper''s home is 

* See Vol. IX. of Ladies' Repositorj'. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 307 

yours. But your heart has led you back there to that old 
and loved retreat — I am sure it has led you there, for in no 
other spot grow the meadow-cranberries so large and red. It 
was but the other day that I, too, visited the ruins. After a 
long, long ramble through the wildest and greenest old woods, 
where the moss carpets the whole earth, and is jewelled over 
with scarlet winter-berries and purple anemones — after a 
long, long ramble, through thickets of the glossiest-leaved 
laurel, and beneath the green arches of slant old hemlocks, 
we came suddenly upon a large, green, billowy pond, whose 
waves were tossing angrily against its high wooded banks. 
Hills surrounded it on every side but one — and on that side 
gushed forth a merry stream, near the banks of which were 
the ruins of poor Susey's hut. All around was solitary. 
Woods and hills shut in the view on every hand ; and no 
sound was heard but the groaning of the waves, the laughing 
ripple of the brook, and the caw ! caw ! of melancholy crows. 
Here for many years had been old Susey's habitation. How 
she subsisted was a wonder to me ; so far away from the 
dwellings of men and the comforts of human society. But 
my father showed me the spot where she used to raise corn, 
perhaps other vegetables, also ; and very near this place, 
through the corner of a woodland, lay a large meadow filled 
with cranberries and cowslips, which the old woman occasion- 
ally brought into the village, to exchange for salt-meat and 
other articles of provision. Yes, it must be that she has been 
to the old meadow again, and gazed long and ruefully, no 
doubt, upon the pile of bricks and stone that mark the spot 
of her ancient residence. Who will blame her if she fondly 
loved that wild and lowly home ? She had little else to love, 
poor thing I little else to claim her thoughts. And even the 
affections of the sinful and the abandoned must have some 
object around which to cling, though it be but a crumbling 
hearthstone, or a patch of barren ground. 

From behind that same group of willows approaches an- 
other form. The walk is a familiar one. I know every 
attitude, every motion. Why should I not ? He is one of 
the household, dear fellow ! Ah ! he is returning from the 



308 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

post-office. His hands are full of packages, newspapers, Sec, 
Wait a moment. "Any letters for me, Johnny?" "One. 

Guess who from, and you shall have it." " From Mrs. ? " 

"No." "Miss ?" "No." "Mr. ?" "No." "Well, 

who is it ? You don't know whether I guess right or not. 
How should you ?" "Because I know the post-mark and the 
handwriting." " Oh ! don't make me guess any longer. Do 
give me the letter." " I am sure you will guess right this 
time," says Johnny, laughing. " If it were not so very, very, 
very long since my last letter, that I quite despair of ever 
receiving a reply, I should almost fancy, from its aspect, that 

it might be from ." " You are right," is the reply ; and 

dash comes the letter into my lap. No, it has fallen behind 
my chair. Farewell, dear reader, to idleness and to you. 
This letter has acted like a galvanic battery. Were the 
strength of a giant required to break the seal, I am sure I 
could do it without delay. 

1842. _ 

Hour Second. — Well, the idle hour has come again — 
the idle, dreamy summer hour. Not now am I snugly repos- 
ing in the anus of my Tabby-velvet, and gazing out upon 
that quiet village scene. This parlor rocking-chair, of crimson 
velvet, (not an unwelcome substitute,) commands a far different 
view — a view of jostling crowds, and brick pavements, and 
vehicles of every form, and character, and device ; of bearded 
manhood, and budding childhood, and laughing beauty ; of 
tottering eld, and creeping invalidity; of all the indescribable 
varieties of human beings and human action. 

What a contrast between city and country life ! How dif- 
ferent the objects that claim our admiration and awaken our 
interest ! Here Art is queen of the kingdom. She erects her 
arches, and rears her turrets, and cuts out of the shapeless 
marble, statuary of surpassing beauty. We look through the 
dusty pane into the dark and cheerless apartment of the 
sculptor. Forms of breathless beauty are around him — the 
creations of his own soul, the visible manifestations of the 
loveliest ideals of a human spirit. Through the bow-windows 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 309 

of the shopman glitter the costliest jewels, and fabrics of the 
richest material, and rarest worlunanship. Wherever we turn, 
all is art. 

But ihere^ in the green and breezy country, Nature has 
established her eternal rule. Her domes are the spreading 
branches of giant oaks and lofty sycamores ; her columns are 
the moss-painted trunks of century-old trees ; her altars are 
grass-grown banks, jewelled with golden dandelions ; and upon 
everj' nodding bough and in every tuft of sedge, sit her wild 
and tuneful minstrels, pouring forth their lays of melting 
sweetness, or gathering into their little hearts themes for a 
thousand future songs. 

And yet, despite the contrast, one grows, in time, to love 
the city, even if it be only from a love of his own kind. One 
grows, even, to love the very streets ; not that they are beau- 
tiful, save in the living beauty that trips over them ; but there 
are associations — associations without which the most glorious 
scenes in the universe are dull, and speechless, and tame. It 
is 7wt the love of the physically beautiful which makes the 
charm of human existence ; it is not outward loveliness and 
glory which makes one spot of earth dearer to us than another. 
There is something within, and beyond all this. There is a 
spirit, as well as a form, necessary even to inanimate things 
— a spirit of memory and of association. 

The most magnificent residence in the vicinity of our 
metropolis, would be less dear, and less lovely to us as stran- 
gers, than the dirtiest, and meanest, and gloomiest of its 
streets, if only kind hearts had beat for us there, if only gentle 
eyes had smiled, and voices had uttered their words of love, 
and the feelings of our own souls had been holy and pure, 
around its most desolate hearthstone. 

Those old trees across the street, with their crooked branches 
and deep green foliage — how well I have grown to love them 
from the very simplest of associations ! I love them because I 
watch them — because they are ever before my eyes through 
the day, and the sound of their waving leaves is in my ears 
through the night. I love them because they are benefactors 
to the race that bustles around them ; because they cast their 



310 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

cooling shade over the dusty and weary plodder ; because they 
cheer the invalid's eye, and speak to finite, perishing man, of 
the Infinite and Imperishable God. 
1842. _ 

Hour Third. — Night in this great and bustling city; 
beautiful, glorious night ! The country is grand, gloomy, and 
solemn now, but the city is a scene of most impressive mag- 
nificence. Look forth with me from this lofty window, into 
the long and glittering street. The gas-lights glare on either 
hand, and floods of radiance stream from the windoAvs of lofty 
dwellings and gild the black and wavy branches of those giant 
trees that overshadow the Mall, illustrating in mezzotint, as it 
were, the gorgeous descriptions of the poets of the Orient. 

Night in the city ! The billowy mass of human life that 
has been sounding its ocean-like anthem through the long, 
midsummer day, is as hushed and quiet now as though its 
great heart had ceased to beat. The hoarse bay of a watch 
dog from a neighboring stable, the half-smothered cry of a 
restless infant, the hollow cough of some sleepless invalid, the 
heavy tread of the muffled watchman, — these are all the 
sounds that give token of the presence of life in this great and 
crowded city. How impressive is this silence ! How solemn ! 
It awes me more than the crashing thunder, or the roar of the 
storm-king upon the ocean. The spirit fancies itself alone in 
the universe — human life all dead, and no companion save 
the glittering stars, whose rays of light come to our souls with 
as sweet an influence, almost, as messages from the absent 
whom we love. Never do we so truly feel the presence of the 
Infinite as now. Never are we so conscious of the sway He 
holds over our spiritual being. Hushed, and reverent, and 
thrilled with holy love, we bow down before Him, and his 
blessing fills our souls. 

1842. — 

Boston Harbor. 

Hour Fourth. — The sun is now on his descent to the hori- 
zon, and his yellow rays fall slant upon the bosoms of the 
grassy islands, and gild with silvery chains the surface of the 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 311 

sea. In the wake of our gallant boat follows a black, dismal- 
looking British steamer, bound for Halifax. She comes slowly 
lumbering along in the distance, pouring from her red nostrils 
an immense cloud of smoke, through whose wreathy borders 
the sun diflfuses his radiant light, and whose vast column 
stretches far, far behind, as though it would daub with its 
murky touch, the blushing face of the sun. 

Behind us lies the favorite city, with its crowning dome, 
and its walls of brick — the Navy Yard — half hid by tower- 
ing masts and deep-green trees, and high above all, " the 
granite finger, moistened by the blood of patriotism, and point- 
ing upward from the sod to heaven." And now slowly from 
the north-east rises a dense curtain of fog, veiling from our 
sight the green islands and rock-bound peninsulas that border 
our ocean-path. With the demon of sea-sickness for our com- 
panion, come, dear Ella, let us court the comforts of a crowded 
cabin. Now and then a fog-bell, to give warning to the 
unconscious vessels in our pathway, and the bellowing of 
waves near the shoals, shall break to us the monotony of a long 
and miserable night. Ah, well; this sea-sickness is delicious. 
It draws one's head down so cosily to the pillow, and makes 
one feel so perfectly independent of all destiny. We fear 
little from accidents now. And yet we have a sort of dreamy 
consciousness of what is passing around us, and a disposition 
to be amused even in the midst of our misery. 

Hark ! there is a scene passing below us. That is the 
voice of the cabin-maid. " I want thirty-seven and a half 
cents for your supper ! " 

" What ?" replies a faint, half-smothered voice from one of 
the berths. 

" I want thirty-seven and a half cents for your supper ! " 
screams in a still louder voice the cabin-maid. 

"What?" again inquired the deaf lady. 

" I want thirty-seven and a half cents for your supper ! " is 
reiterated in a still more vociferous accent. 

This colloquy is repeated a dozen times or more, and at 
last the stewardess leaves the cabin in despair. Now we sink 
into a gentle doze for a moment or two, forgetting alike our 



312 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

miseries and our amusements. Alas ! like all sublunary hap- 
piness, this proves to be but transitory. The cabin-maid 
returns, and the deaf lady, awakened from her torpor, makes 
some monetary overture. 

" I only had a half of a cup of tea, and a little bit of biscuit," 
she adds, in a deprecating tone. 

" No matter ; you are welcome to it ; I '11 not charge you 
anything for your supper — you are welcome to it — welcome 
to it — I asked the steward about it, and he says I may give 
it to you, if I 'm a mind to." 

This fuss over, the cabin continues pretty quiet till morn- 
ing. About dressing time the hubbub is renewed. Sea-sick 
mothers, dead for a season to all parental tenderness, petu- 
lantly wish their children thrown overboard ; call them " little 
torments," declare that they detest them, and use sundry 
other terms of endearment, while the little vomiting darlings 
look up in surprise, vt^ondering what change can have come 
over mamma, that she has no pity for their sufferings. 

How welcome to us all comes the sound of the bell which 
announces our arrival at the wharf. Faint, and reeling, and 
misanthropic, we stagger up from the cabin, and with a hearty 
pleasure bid farewell to Portland Boat, and are ushered across 
the plank into beautiful Portland City. 

1842. 

Westbrook, Me. 

Hour Fifth. — The scene has changed. No sight nor sound 
of the ocean reaches us here. Woodland quiet — the breath 
of flowers — the waving of green trees — the singing of happy 
birds — these are the soft influences" that now surround us. 
The eyes of joyous children smile on us; and the clasping of 
warm hands thrills the nerves that lie nearest to our hearts. 

If God be not more in the country than in the town, he at 
least gives us more immediate inspiration of his presence. 
We are too susceptible to surrounding influences not to be 
affected by the purity and beauty and solemnity of country 
solitude. In place of the brick and paving stone, the little 
flower springs up to carpet the earth for our feet — the little 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 313 

flower, whose perfect organization, whose fragrance and beauty, 
are alone sufficient to prove to us the existence of an All-wise 
and All-gracious Father. Every kindly emotion seems fos- 
tered by this rural quiet. Let us sit down, Ella, on this bank 
of shining grass. Does not this scene bring to thy heart a 
remembrance of former hours — of other solitudes — of a home 
dearer to me than this can be to thee ? Canst thou recall to 
mind revelations of the inner heart that were uttered beneath 
the sighing pines of a woodland far, far away ? And dost thou 
know how that same heart has since changed ? How old it 
has grown, and wise ? 

Thou art smiling, as though thou wert doubting either its 
wisdom or its age ; but a heart that has had much experience 
can still be gay ; and though it may have learned wisdom, 
can screen it all beneath a careless and indifferent air. That 
maiden, whose dreamings were so freely revealed to us, has 
grown mature in heart, and the unphilosophical, and the 
romantic might accuse her of worldliness ; perhaps, even of 
sordid selfishness. But they would do her wrong. Romance, 
indeed, has become to her as vanished dream — but reality — 
life in its more earnest and truthful aspect, has revealed itself 
to her mind ; and she has learned to distinguish between the 
bowery and tortuous path which leads into a land of mists 
and rainbows, and that more rugged and unattractive way 
whose windings will terminate in useful and substantial hap- 
piness. 

1842. _ 

Hour Sixth. — Well, Lottie, I am on my green throne once 
more — my comfortable velvet arm-chair, of gossiping noto- 
riety — and who shall forbid me the luxury of a long chat with 
any true-hearted friend I choose to call to my side ? Have 
you any choice of a theme ? I could give you some rude, 
crayon-like sketches of our little village in its dilapidated 
autumn magnificence ; but descriptions of scenery are becom- 
ing trite ; and " the poets" have " worked over the stock" (as 
the paper-mill phrase is) till there is scarcely a fibre left on 
which to string the pulp. So, dUettante-isk as you are, I 
27 



314 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

shall not gratify your taste for the picturesque by cross-stitch- 
ing upon my gossip-canvass any images of little crooked trees, 
such as threw you into ecstasies at L., or of moss-covered 
cottages, with creaking well-sweeps in front. No, you shall 
have something more transcendental ; some " Orphic-sayings," 
whose wonderful wisdom shall be hidden from all those who 
are behind us in the flights of the " Over-Soul." 

We are neither of us yet, like the year, dear Lottie, " in 
the sere and yellow leaf." We look not upon life as a pageant 
that is past, but as one in which we are, ourselves, now act- 
ing. True, we mingle not in its tumults — wear none of its 
panoplies — are not heard sounding alarms upon its watch- 
towers ; nevertheless, all quietly though we sit in the myrtle- 
bowers of love, and peace, and domestic retirement, we cannot 
forget that we have brothers, friends, knights, perchance, 
Lottie, busily engaged in its conflicts. God strengthen their 
hearts and nerve their souls in every great and noble contest ! 
Who fight so bravely as they ? Who wield the sword of truth 
so valiantly? Who wear the snowy plumes of Christian 
faith so gallantly waving in the clear breezes and glorious 
sunshine of heaven ? 

Hark, Lottie! The sound of trumpets and the cries of 
heralds ! Let us go sit awhile in yonder deserted watch- 
tower, and look down upon the army as they pass. What a 
glorious procession ! How majestically the broad white Ban- 
ner of Love swells to and fro to the soft winds of heaven ! 
Look ! its insignia is but a simple cross, with the motto, — 
" God is Love ! " Yonder cometh the leader of this splendid 
array. He is attired in pilgrim-robes, and his sandals are 
worn and soiled ; but Napoleon never wore so proud a crest, 
as the thin, proud locks that wave upon this good man's brow. 
And here, Lottie, cometh another general ; the pride of the 
army. With firm step and undaunted brow, he has been 
foremost and strongest in the battle. He has crossed Alps, 
and warred amid the Pyramids ; nor has he been driven back 
by worse than Russian snows and Moscow fires. Yet see 
him when the hour of rest has come, and you will find a group 
of children around his knees, playing, may be, with the very 
sword that has slain sfiants in the battle. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 315 

There cometh a brave champion — hark! what a strong 
blast he blows upon that great Ti-umpet ! " Glad tidings of 
great joy which shall be unto all people ! " Again ! Again ! 
the cry is caught up, and echoed back by a thousand clear- 
voiced clarions far and near! And look, Lottie ! Ah, yes, 
you have recognized him, I see — our brother — that gallant 
warrior, who finds it so difficult to curb the impetuous charger 
that has borne him proudly through many victories. And at 
his side is a still younger herald, who bears a silver clarion in 
his hand, and wears for his crest a small radiant star. Wave 
your scarf at them, Lottie — the bravest in camp and the 
gentlest in bower — wave them your scarf from the turreted 
tower ! 

Now cast your eye along from right to left. How many 
kind, familiar faces meet our gaze. Fathers, brothers, mem- 
bers all of the great " household of faith." There is one in 
minstrel garb, with a wreath of olive around his brow. If need 
be, he can put on the armor of a soldier, and dash into the 
hottest of the fight ; but he loveth better the soothing spell of 
poesy ; and, in chieftain's hall and lady's bower, has tuned 
his harp to many a sacred lay, and rehearsed many a tale of 
Love Divine at the hearth-stones of the afflicted and the poor. 
God bless him for his earnest heart and active hand ! God 
bless one and all of those brave and faithful soldiers that labor 
at his side ! 

Do you see that bright-eyed, smiling young warrior, who 
kisses his hand to us from the crowd ? There is not a braver 
or more zealous-hearted and devoted knight in all the army 
of the Cross, than he. He is, moreover, the leader of the 
juvenile corps. And that sunny-lipped herald, with a garland 
of queenly lilies on his brow, who precedes the van-guard of 
the army — hark ! how the music of his clarion thrills through 
the hearts of the multitude ! How deep its tones and rich ! 
How exquisitely they die away over the mountain tops, and 
how sweetly they break forth again, and ring through the 
quiet valley ! " Peace on earth, and good will to men ! " is 
the angel-like proclamation, to which all the vanguard, noblest 
of the army, respond aloud — " Aimn ! " 



316 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

The vision has faded, Lottie, and here we sit again, as 
through the magic of Ali's carpet, in this quiet, secluded cham- 
ber. The gossip-spirit has deserted me ; and I have a fancy 
now, instead of amusing others, to be amused myself; so draw 
your chair a little nearer to my throne, and in your own 
beautiful words, give me one of the " Lights or Shadows of 
Woman's Life." Alas ! Lottie, the shadows are so numerous 
in poor woman's lot, that if you are in the mood for it, I 
would rather the present sketch should be a sunny one — a 
lAght instead of a Shadow. 

1842. _ 

Hour Seventh. — There, the fire burns brightly now, and 
its genial warmth, diffused through my chilly frame, has acted 
by a kind of sympathetic magnetism upon my brain and heart. 
How unfortunate, now that I am in a social mood, that no 
kind neighbor will "just drop in" to chat an hour with me ! 

Rap ! rap ! rap ! How like a fairy benison comes that wel- 
come announcement of a visitor ! Who, I wonder, can it be ? 
Let us take a peep through the window before giving admit- 
tance. Ah ! it is old Uncle Moses, the village sexton. I know 
him by his long white hair and low-crowned hat. It is too 
bad to keep the old man standing so long in the furious storm. 
I will hasten to admit him. 

" Take the arm-chair. Uncle Moses, and let me unlade your 
cloak of the snow that has gathered upon it like a drapery of 
ermine." 

" Shake off the snow, you mean, girl, I suppose. Pray 
don't starch up your sentences, and embroider them over 
with so many figures and fine words. I am an old man, and 
love to hear things said in the old-fashioned, homespun way. 
Young ladies are getting to be sadly artificial, now-a-days." 

" True, Uncle Moses ; and I beg pardon for having offended 
your ears with * fine words.' It is not a common fault of 
mine, I assure you. If anybody talks simply, it is I. So 
allow me to draw my chair close to your side, and have a real 
gossip with you about things past, present, and to come. 
First, then, is there any ' news ' about the village ? ' 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 317 

"News — yes, that's it ! You women are always wanting 
something new. Gossip is the food you hve upon." 

" Now don't be so hard upon us, Uncle Moses. You know 
there must be a little pepper in the dish of life, and I have had 
none in mine for a long while past. So do tell me directly, 
have there been no births, deaths, or marriages, within the last 
month?" 

" I used my spade, yesterday." 

" Oh, Uncle Moses ! you make me shudder. Pray don't be 
so frightfully laconic. Tell me, at once, who is dead." 

" No one. I used it to break the ice from my door-step." 

" How could you frighten me so for nothing ? But as you 
seem determined to tell me nothing of recent occurrence, do 
satisfy my cravings for novelty with some fragments from 
your basket of memories. I am sure you must be rich in 
reminiscences." 

" I am, I am, girl ! An old grave-digger like me is always 
picking up some little incident to lay aside in his store-house 
of recollections. But they are all of them simple and trite — 
scarce worth repeating to one who is eager as you are for 
novelty. However, I will talk to you awhile about some of 
the tenants of 7)iy houses — those narrow houses with green 
grassy roofs, and graven slate-stones for tiles. Do you remem- 
ber a beautiful white rose-bush, the only one in the grave- 
yard, that hangs its blossoms over the wall, near the gate ?" 

" Yes, I have often paused at that spot, and wondered 
whether it were a grave — for there is no monument or name 
to give token of any sleeper beneath." 

" If you had searched more carefully, you would have 
found a small tablet which lies quite hidden by the grass. 
'Jeanette' was the name of the lovely girl whose grave is 
there, and it is the only epitaph left to memorialize her quiet 
history. I had not been many years a digger of graves, when 
there moved into the little mossy-roofed cottage by the church, 
a young Scotch gardener and his wife. One day, as I stood 
by a half-made grave-pit, leaning wearily upon my spade, a 
little fairy of a girl came tripping modestly to my side. I am 
a great lover of little children, and never repulse them when 
27^ 



318 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

they come about me at my work. This little girl fastened 
herself to my heart at once. She told me her name. It was 
Jeanette. She was the daughter, the only child, of the Scotch 
gardener. 

" From this day forth she never saw me at my work, that 
she did not make herself my companion. How she would 
chase about among the old gray tombstones, plucking the yel- 
low dandelions and the purple heal-all, and weaving them into 
garlands to hang upon the baby headstones ! One day she 
found a nest of young robins close under the shelter of a 
reclining gravestone ; and such delight as the sweet creature 
experienced in feeding and watching the little brood, was 
beautiful to behold. TiU she was sixteen years old, this dar- 
ling girl never long neglected her favorite haunt. She became 
to me the angel of the place, cheering me ever in my hard and 
gloomy toil, and bringing her own serene and cheerful piety 
to brighten the darker colors of my own. 

" About this time she suddenly neglected me ; and I used 
to see her walking in another and more retired retreat, accom- 
panied by a young, dark-eyed youth, to whom in the course 
of time she was solemnly plighted by the holiest of lover's 
vows. The young fellow enlisted as a soldier, went to battle, 
and was killed before he had gained a single honor. Poor 
Jeanette ! she returned now to her olden haunt, but with a face 
and step so changed, it used to sadden, more than in former 
times it had cheered me to see her approach. She never spoke 
of Harry ; but she brought green and fragrant shrubs, and 
planted them in the corner by the gate ; and then she came to 
me with a sweet moonlight smile upon her lips ; ' Uncle 
Moses,' she said, ' I wish you to dig my grave just in the 
centre of those rose-bushes ; and then, after you have covered 
me over, let the green grass grow upon the spot, and have 
nothing but a simple tablet bearing my name, laid there to 
designate my resting-place.' 

" ' Long be the time ere I am called to so mournful an office,' 
I replied, looking anxiously into the dear girl's eyes, which 
were unnaturally large and bright. She smiled again, and 
glided silently away. It was her last visit. When next she 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 319 

came, she was borne by the hands of eight weeping boys, and 
lowered into the grave which she had bade me dig among her 
rose-trees. That beautiful bush, which now clambers over the 
wall, is the only one that has till this day survived; for it is 
now twenty years since they laid that little lamb in her quiet 
bed." 

" Poor Jeanette ! I shall visit that spot with a new interest 
in future. It is true, then, that woman does sometimes die 
of a broken heart ? " 

" Indeed she does, often, often. If you doubt it, go with 
me some day among the tenements in yonder church-yard. 
I can point out to you more than a dozen mounds, beneath 
which moulder away the fragments of broken hearts. Some 
have wasted beneath neglect; some have been corrupted and 
betrayed ; others have been eaten away by sorrows that are 
without names ; and not a few have died as Jeanette did, 
because the link of love was irremediably broken, to be reunited 
only, in the world of enduring bliss." 

" I doubt it not. Uncle Moses. Indeed, I presume I may 
follow their example." 

" Not while that ' lurking devil ' in your eye (Uncle Moses 
reads the poets) so strongly belies the presumption. There 
are forty-nine wild spirits to be tamed in your heart before it 
will be in a breaking condition." 

" Do you think so ? So much the merrier my life will be, 
then — that is all. But why do you go so soon ? You have 
not given me half your reminiscences yet." 

" Wait till another time, child. My heart is too sad now, 
thinking of pretty Jeanette." 

1843. _ 

Hour Eighth. — " Social feelings strong — inquisitive organs 
remarkably developed — great propensity for a well-seasoned 
dish of gossip, taken with strong tea! etc. etc. etc.," said my 
little mischief-loving, phrenological friend Emma, running her 
pretty fingers over my head and sadly disordering my hair; 
and then tying the strings of her foolish-looking, spaniel-eared 
hood beneath her dimpled chin, she ran away just as I was 
trying to tease a little heart-secret from her. 



320 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

And so, I must pass this long winter evening alone. What 
friend shall I call down from the shelves of my little library ? 
Milton, with his sweet, fanciful " Comus ; " or Irving, whose 
quaint dreams and homestead pictures have made him the 
favorite of all genial hearts and generous intellects ? Or shall 
it be one of the gentler sex — dear Miss Mitford, and her 
pretty village heroines, or charming Mary Howitt, with her 
alchymic genius, changing all it touches into the rarest of 
gold? 

Dear me ! Who would have thought that in dislodging 
this beautiful copy of the " American Poets," I needed to have 
rattled down a half-dozen heavy octavos upon the floor ! 

There comes M now, I dare say, to find out what aU this 

noise is about. Bless me, no ! it is old Uncle Moses again ! 
How glad I am to see you, sir ! You find me quite alone, 
and, as usual, regretting my solitude." 

" Alone ! Young ladies who have minds and hearts, should 
never be alone. Thought is the most improving of all com- 
panions." 

" Do you think so ? Now I often find it very stupid." 

" Your own fault, then, daughter. It is your duty to give 
it a serious and instructive character; then you will never 
complain that solitude is irksome. But you were about to sit 
down to your book, were you not ? A handsome volume that. 
Poetry, is it ? Ah, well, they print a deal of such stuff now- 
a-days, but I reckon I have buried up sweeter poetry beneath 
the clods of yonder church-yard, than any you will find in 
books." 

"I dare say it. And, by the way, did you not promise me, 
Uncle Moses, some further reminiscences of your professional 
life ? Now is the time, if you are in a mood for it ; but, first, 
let me apologize for not having sooner offered to relieve you 
of your surtout. You will find it uncomfortable at the fire- 
side." 

" Well, my girl, you must assist me, for this plaguy rheu- 
matism has taken the strength all out of my arms. But 
before you lay it aside, let me take something from the pocket 
that I may need in the course of the evening." 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 321 

" O what a pretty little ivory box ! Do let me open it, for I 
am as curious as Pandora. Was it dug out of a grave ? " 

" No, dear. It contains merely a few relics of one who was 
very precious to my heart. You may look at them, if you 
wish, though they will have little interest aside from what is 
associated with her history, poor girl ! " 

" Oh ! a picture ! How beautiful it is ! What soft, melan- 
choly eyes, and small, chiselled lips ! Do tell me her story. 
But stop — here is something more. A lock of rich, brown 
hair; — how gracefully it curls, and how glossy it looks, 
as I hold it up to the light ! She must have been a lovely 
creature." 

" She was." 

" And this was her ring, I suppose. The initials on it are 
H. W." 

" Helen Whitman." 

"What is this dark spot upon it? It looks like blood! 
Pray do tell me her story." 

" Well, be patient a little, and I will try. When our village 
academy was first built — which is some twenty years ago — 
an advertisement was sent out in the papers for some lady 
qualified to take charge of the girls' department. Applicants 
to this office were not as numerous in those days as they are 
now J and only three presented themselves. One was a widow 
about forty years old; one a maiden lady approaching her 
' fourth corner,' and the third, a young girl of seventeen, named 
Helen Whitman. The committee selected to examine the 
qualifications of the applicants were young men, and two of 
them unmarried. Whether this circumstance had any influ- 
ence upon their decision, I will leave you, who are younger 
than I, to determine. It is true, however, that the two elder 
ladies, like most of your literary women, were remarkably 
homely ; and that Helen was one of the most beautiful girls 
ever seen in our village. She was the unanimous choice; 
and though there were some demurrings among the prudent 
parents on account of her youth, the committee were resolute 
in declaring' that her attainments were of a very superior 
character ; and as it was an undoubted fact that much of the 



322 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

children's progress depended upon their attachment to their 
teacher, they had selected from the ladies the one who was 
possessed of the sweetest disposition. Some one ventured to 
inquire how they were so certain of this, the three candidates 
being equally strangers. ' Why, any booby might know it, or 
rather anybody would be a booby that did n't 1" answered 
Charles Warrener, the youngest of the committee. 'Look 
into her face,' said he, ' and see what a radiation of goodness 
and gentleness is there ! Why, there is not a greater contrast 
between December and June, than there is between the stiff, 
dogmatical, Westminster-Catechism look of that old maid, and 
the sweet, smiling, yet melancholy beauty of Helen Whitman. 
As for the widow, she is well enough,' he continued, 'but 
then — she is old, and homely, and has the rheumatism, and 
I dare say would do quite as much at grunting and groaning 
as she would at teaching. She looks too much like a milk- 
and-water character, too, to suit me.' This was Charles 
Warrener's reasoning, and as his reasoning was generally 
satisfactory to all the young ladies, it was, in consequence, to 
the mammas, and, through their influence, to the papas ; so 
the choice of the committee was shortly ratified by the whole 
village, and Helen's star was at once in the ascendant. 

" There was one circumstance, however, which had occa- 
sioned a little discussion and hesitation amongst the com- 
mittee. The two elder candidates came loaded with recom- 
mendations from doctors, judges, and professors ; but poor 
Helen had not a single certificate to present, except her own 
sweet countenance. She made her plea, however, and it was 
more effectual than a thousand certificates. ' Gentlemen,' said 
she, 'I have brought no recommendations. lam willing to 
give such testimonies of my capacities as you have the dispo- 
sition to require of me, personally. I am an orphan. I was 
educated by my mother ; and as the place of my birth is hun- 
dreds of miles distant, and as I have no acquaintances out of 
that immediate vicinity, it is impossible for me to procure 
certificates. I have no experience as a teacher; and it wiU 
be, therefore, unsafe for you to engage me for a longer period 
than one quarter. Be assured, gentlemen, I shall accept no 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 323 

compensation for my services unless they fully meet your 
approval.' 

" The singularity of a young girl's coming ' hundreds of 
miles,' unfriended and unrecommended, and trusting to Provi- 
dence and the generosity of strangers for success, together 
with her extreme beauty and interesting manners, was suffi- 
cient at once to enlist the heartiest sympathies of the committee. 
They would have engaged her for a year; but this she posi- 
tively declined ; and young Warrener said he was glad, for 
he did not know but he might wish to engage her for himself 
by that time. 

" As wife and I had no children, our house was thought to 
be more quiet and commodious than those of our neighbors, 
which were overstocked. We were accordingly applied to, by 
the committee, for board ; and the next week Helen became 
an inmate of our family. She soon seemed to me like a child. 
Her manners were extremely winning and affectionate, and 
overflowed with kindness to every living thing. Her scholars 
loved her intensely. It was not enough for them to be with 
her at school ; they literally haunted the house when she was 
at home, bringing flowers and berries, and fruits in abundance, 
as testimonials of their true-hearted love. ' Helen,' I used to 
say to her, ' how is it you contrive to make those little crea- 
tures love you so?' 'Oh, no mystery at all,' she would 
answer ; ' they do it as naturally as the flowers dispense their 
fragrance to the winds that kiss them. Knowing how much 
my heart is bound up in them, they cannot choose but love 
me a little in return.' 

" You remarked the melancholy of those eyes. It was not 
their unvarying expression, yet it was seen there often, and 
always when she was meditative. Her nature was full of 
hope and cheerfulness. Some painful circumstance could 
alone have induced such enduring sadness. True, she was 
an orphan, and to one of her affectionate disposition this must 
have been a severe allotment. But she was so truly a Chris- 
tian, so trustful in her religious feelings, so unwavering in her 
belief that all God's dispensations are for the greatest good of 
his offspring, that I was confident it must have been something 



324 FROSE SELECTIONS. 

worse than the loss of friends which could produce such abid- 
ing sorrow. 

" The whole village was her admirer, and especially that 
portion of it embraced in the person of Charles Warrener. 
He was a young lawyer of fine talents, and many personal 
accomplishments. He had a soul, too ; as I am sorry to say 
all lawyers have not; though I do not join the general crusade 
against the profession. Yes, Charley Warrener was as good- 
hearted a fellow as you will meet in a thousand ; and a great 
admirer of beautiful and intellectual women. He had been a 
sort of butterfly, flitting from one pretty girl to another, half 
an hour in love with one, and the next moment as much 
engrossed with another. Some called him a trifler, but I do 
not think he intended anything like flirtation. He was search- 
ing for his ideal, and he found it in Helen Whitman. 

" He had a little niece who attended Helen's school, and 
who soon became a great favorite with her teacher. Very 
frequently the little girl would come in the morning with a 
handful of beautiful wild flowers, which Uncle Charles had 
helped her select for Miss Whitman's herbarium; or with 
some rare specimen of garnet or quartz, which he trusted 
might find admittance to her cabinet; or a potted plant to 
shade her window. And if there was to be a ride, or sail, 
or wood party, (which answered to modern pic-nics,) Uncle 
Charles usually came in person to solicit her attendance. 

" Everybody predicted a match ; and even I saw no sufficient 
reason why it should not be so, especially when I observed 
the visible embarrassment his attentions excited in Helen. 
But at length, to the surprise of us all, she declined all these 
attentions, and as far as was possible, consistently with her 
situation, secluded herself from society. Her melancholy now 
grew deeper and more absorbing. Some violent struggle was 
shaking her very soul. Yet she bore it silently, and would 
have fain hidden it from every eye. She tried to affect gayety ; 
but the laugh died away upon her lips, and the tones that were 
meant to be cheerful came tremulous and broken to our ears. 

" Not to prolong my story, however, for I see it is getting 
late, I will hasten over several months, to early June of 1825. 
I was sitting, one day, in our little back parlor, by the open 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 326 

window, A summer-house was affixed to the window, and 
so completely covered with vines on every side, as to prevent 
all communication of sight, though not of sound, between those 
within and without. It was about sunset that I heard some 
one enter the summer-house, whom I supposed to be Helen. 
I was about to address her, when a second person entered, or, 
rather, as I thought, seated himself upon the step of the door. 
The chair in which I was sitting was an arm-chair, and I had 
drawn my writing-desk up so closely that it was impossible 
for me to retire without making sufficient noise to interrupt 
the conversation, which had already been of too delicate a 
nature to be adapted to the ears of a third party. I was 
obliged, therefore, to become an involuntary listener to poor 
Helen's narrative. 

" ' Mr. Warrener,' she said, (for he was her companion,) ' I 
have been for months shrinking from this explanation, and 
should withhold it even longer, did I not feel that true affec- 
tion should receive, at least, the meed of confidence. A dark 
cloud hangs over my destiny, and will follow me, or lead me, 
rather, to the grave ; but there is some comfort in the thought 
that its shadow will rest only upon one.' 

" ' Say not so, Helen,' interrupted Warrener, earnestly ; 
' the darkest portion of it is already upon me, and certainly is 
not lessened any by my ignorance of its character. Can / be 
in the sunshine, when clouds are over your pathway ? Never, 
Helen ! I should disdain to be happy unless you were so !' 

'"You are very kind,' said Helen, in a voice struggling 
with her misery, ' and I would to God that it were possible to 
spare you any portion of my suffering ; it is not, however, if 
you love me, as I have cause to think you do. Nay, make no 
new protestations, Charles ; they but increase the pain at my 
heart. And now, let me ask, how much can you bear to know 
of Helen's history ? Will you hate her if she tells you she is 
a child of guilt?' 

" ' No, Helen,' he answered, gravely, ' the time for pride is 
gone by. No disgrace that rests upon your name can make 
you less the object of my noblest love. In your own person, 
I am sure you are guiltless.' 
28 



326 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

" * But, Charles,' she said, shuddering, ' it is an awful stain 
that rests upon poor Helen's name — the stain of human 
blood ! ' 

" ' Good God ! is it possible ? ' exclaimed he, springing to 
his feet. 'Nay, forgive me; it was but of your agony I 
thought. From you nothing can make me shrink. Let me 
support you, dear Helen ; you are faint. Lean upon my 
bosom this once, if it must be no more. Now, when you are 
quite calm, you shall tell me all, and I am sure it will be a 
relief to you.' 

" I heard the poor girl weeping. * Oh, but for this one 
dreadful memory, I might be so happy !' she exclaimed, in a 
voice that went deep into more than one soul. ' Why, 
Charles,' she said, in a sudden tone of cheerfulness, strangely 
at variance with the fearful import of her words, ' I am the 
poor, miserable child of a murderer! And oh! what is a 
thousand fold more agonizing, the blood that he spilt was the 
blood of my mother 1 But don't weep, Charles,' she added, 
tenderly ; ' your sympathy makes me very strong. Look 
here,' she said ; ' this was my mother's bridal ring — the 
pledge of her husband's undying love ; see how he stained it 
with her blood ! ' 

" ' And why, Helen, why ? ' 

" ' Because he was " a bold bad man," passionate and jealous, 
and inebriated. He accused her of guilt, and Avhen she knelt 
down, and before God protested her innocence, he struck her 
dead at his feet ! He did not flee, but sullenly awaited his 
trial, confessed his guilt, and, unrepentant, ended his wretched 
being on the scaffold. How I lived through it all, I know 
not, for I loved my mother beyond all human beings ; but it 
was God's will that I should not die ; and when I had suffi- 
ciently recovered my health and mental composure, I left my 
native place, and adopting my mother's maiden name, came 
here, where my history and parentage are unknown. I bore 
my grief more patiently before I learned to love you, Charles.' 

" ' But it can, it must make no difference,' was the reply. 
* Would I not just as proudly call you my wife, in the face of 
the whole world, even if all knew your unhappy history ? I 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 327 

would, Helen, and I cannot allow your scruples ; I tvill not 
allow them to interrupt our happiness.' 

" ' Oh, you don't know me,' said Helen, very seriously, ' 1 
am alive, in every nerve, to the infamy that rests upon my 
name ; and the mere thought that you ever could be re- 
proached with it would be like an undying worm at my heart. 
The race of a murderer must not be perpetuated. Let me fill 
up the last grave ; for that were better, far, than to transmit 
the demon-blood to a generation bearing your beloved name. 
Charles, entreat me not. I will not stay to hear you ;' and 
before he could reply, she escaped into the house, and with- 
drew immediately to her chamber. 

"I did not close my eyes to sleep that night, but lay medita- 
ing arguments with which to combat poor Helen's scruples, 
and induce her to marry one who was so true and generous 
in his love as to be willing to brave all shame for her dear 
sake. I arose very early, and walked into the burying- 
ground, for I had a grave to dig that morning. 

" ' Business comes in fast now-a-days, does n't it ?' said an 
old neighbor, who stopped by the gate, as he was driving his 
cattle past. ' Rather afflicting that affair that happened last 
night.' 

" * What was it ? ' I asked. ' Oh, you have n't heard then ! 
Why, young 'Squire Warrener is dead ! Dropped off in a 
fit, they suppose, for they found him dead on the floor of his 
room, and no signs of poison, or murder.' 

" It was too true. Poor Charles had fallen a victim to the 
violent emotion Helen's narrative and her fixed resolution 
had excited. The physicians opened his chest, and found 
that his heart was ruptured ! They never knew the cause, 
though they attributed it to the excitement of a pending trial, 
in which he was at that time deeply engaged." 

"And Helen?" 

" Oh, it is needless to say, she never rose from the prostra- 
tion his sudden fate occasioned. ' I, too, am a murderer I ' she 
would often exclaim, in a tone of bitter self-reproach ; and 
the morning before she died, she called me to her bedside, 
and requested me to dig her grave at the foot of that large 



328 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

elm, standing in the stream that runs through the church- 
yard. ' It is of little consequence,' she said ; ' but as my lot 
in life has been an isolated one, I would also wish my narrow 
bed to be somewhat apart from the crowd.' And there she 
lies to this day, poor girl, unless the worms have eaten her." 

" Her dust is there. Uncle Moses, but she is in that bright 
and blessed country where there are no murderers. Poor 
Helen ! she was too sensitive." 

"The iniquity of the father was visited upon the child 
with a fearful completeness. Why is it that the innocent 
must suffer so intensely for the deeds of the guilty ? 

" Oh we have need of patient faith below, 
To clear away the mysteries of such woe 1 " 

" And yet, were it not for these ' mysteries,' how could our 
faith be proved ? Depend upon it, Uncle Moses, they will all 
be as clear as noon-day to our imviortal visions ; and tiU then 
we must content ourselves to 

'-^ Know how sublime a thing it is 
To suffer and be strong .' " 
1842. _ 

Hour Ninth. — Did you ever know, Lottie, what it is to 
love " a tree or flower " (as Moore has it) with a peculiar ten- 
derness, not for its own beauty merely, but because it is 
" linked to names you love ?" It may be but a scraggy and 
scrawny shrub, yet to the heart it is dear and beautiful for 
memory's sake. There are many such to which I shall lead 
you some idle summer day. 

On the brow of the hill is an old crooked tree, 
A favorite seat for my friends and me ; 

and under the shadow of its white blossoms and green leaves, 
I will some bright morning point out to you all the kingdoms 
of my heart. No, not all, Lottie ; for some lie beyond the 
horizon, on the borders of beautiful streams ; and the bright- 
est and dearest is beyond ken, seen only by the clairvoyance 
of a Christian's faith. I will show you " the house where I 
was born," half-hid by the tall elms that surround it ; and the 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 329 

school-house on the plain, where, for ten dream-like years of 
thoughtless life, I sat through winter day and summer day on 
the hard plank seat, tasting all kinds of ordinary knowledge, 
from the first rudiments of orthography up to the sublime lore 
of planets and stars ; and the humble church where my heart 
first knelt to drink of the immortal springs whose waters can 
alone satisfy forever, and where it still receives gradual acces- 
sions of strength and faith from the pure fount of Divine 
Truth. 

I can show you, too, the roof-tree, — a somewhat slender 
and thrifty elm, which could not, I fancy, have towered above 
the homestead long enough ago to have sheltered the earliest 
nestlings of the flock, but whose juvenility transcends the 
longest memory of your not very antiquated friend. There 
is a deal of poetry in the roof-tree, Lottie, — a poetr}^ that 
touches the universal heart. How popular that simple lay of 
Gen. Morris' has become ! and how many a greater and lesser 
poet has struck the lyre to a similar theme I The last Repos- 
itory has a pretty poem from Mrs. Spooner, which everybody 
who has Avatched the robins building on the roof-tree, or sat 
in its shadow to read a favorite tale, can properly appreciate. 
And why should we not cherish these benefactors of our child- 
hood, that link its golden hours with the more troubled sea- 
sons of maturer life 'i We cannot revivify the past, and make 
our by-gone days pass over our heads again in their olden 
beauty ; but we can use the Egyptian art of embcdvmig what 
is dead, and, more fortunate than they, can keep the spirit of 
the past alive, when its form and outward glory is vanished 
forever. 

Memory has certainly its pleasures, and it has as surely its 
pains. Some hearts, dear Lottie, are smitten by an early 
blight that tinges the very latest hour of a long life with 
regret ; and some live to three score years and ten without 
being doomed to look back upon any crushing sorrow, or any 
fiery ordeal that seared them as they passed. But very few 
are there, however, who pass the mid-day of life, and find 
much of its morning brightness left. O my friend ! how early 
does it behoove us to find some strength that shall not fail us 
28* 



33(T PROSE SELECTIONS. 

through all life's seasons of weakness ! What shall we do, if 
we lose friends, health, and earthly hope, unless we have some 
place of refuge in the love of God ? Strong, indeed, must 
we build our faith to withstand the assaults of a whole life's 
sorrows ; yet, by pious effort, we seldom fail to acquire that 
true and abiding confidence in God which will sustain us 
under any burden of affliction ; and surely, you know, Lottie, 
how much the acquisition is worth. 

I sat down to gossip with you, and I thought my heart was 
full of bubbles that would effervesce, and run over like a sum- 
mer fountain; but unaccountably my theme has made me 
sad, and I love you too well to make you a participator in my 
lachrymose meditations. So farewell! When you come 
again, charm me into a merry mood. 

1843. 

Hour Tenth. — This is a most bewilderingly beautiful day, 
Louise. Let us up to the summit of the hill, where we can 
be above, yet not shut out from, the busy world around. I 
have no sympathy with the life of a recluse. If I were the 
most religious person in the world, I would not be a nun. I 
believe with Franklin, that the most acceptable service we can 
render God is to do good to our fellow beings ; and how can 
we do them good, to any great extent, unless we mingle with 
them, and share with their pursuits ? I never could see the 
superior piety of those persons who devote their whole, or 
indeed the greater portion of their time, to self-examination 
and self-improvement. It is time, no higher duty exists than 
to make ourselves perfect ; but how can this duty be accom- 
plished so long as we devote ourselves entirely to selfish ends ? 
entirely to our own mental and moral refinement ? 

It is my creed, Louise — would to God I more fully prac- 
tised it in my daily life ! — that the very highest responsibility 
of our being is to make those in the sphere of our influence 
happy. The question we ought to consider, when reflecting 
on the result of any action, is not, " Shall I be rewarded for 
it ?" — but, " Will it be useful to any human being ? " 

That we owe ourselves certain duties, I am aware. There 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 331 

are practical virtues, whose performance extends scarcely 
beyond our own individual knowledge and benefit. We owe 
it to ourselves to be temperate, cleanly, and in every respect 
orderly ; to be well-instructed in religious faith, and in scien- 
tific and historic knowledge. Still, all these virtues and 
acquirements have an indirect bearing upon the happiness of 
those around us. We are so connected, every individual of 
us, with the great mass of human life in the world, that even 
our personal habits do more or less affect the general comfort 
and tranquillity of those with whom we mingle. 

But I am prosing — and here we are now, on the very brow 
of this high hill. Let us have a seat on this crooked apple- 
tree. Years ago, Louise, a friend sat with me here, and I can 
show you now the spot where he cut from its bark a fragment 
of green, velvety moss. " If I go over the seas to other lands," 
said he, " I will look upon this little relic there, and think of 
you." I should like to know if he is looking on it now, think- 
ing of me. A blessing on him, though the Avaters be between 
us. Would there were in this world no less faithful friends 
than he ! 

Look up, Louise, into the deep blue sky ! What a mystery 
is day, that shrouds from our gaze the myriad worlds that are 
forever moving through that stupendous arch ! Day was 
made for ma- earth, to show us the minute loveliness spread 
everywhere upon its bosom ; Night, for the million-sphered 
universe ; for the display of suns and worlds a hundred-fold 
more magnificent and glorious than our own ! Day is for the 
beauty of the rose, for the song of the lark ; Night comes 
" With every star. 
Making the streams that in their noonday track 
Give but the moss, the reed, the lily back. 
Mirrors of worlds afar! " 

Is there not, to you, something almost terrific in the sublim- 
ity of astronomic truths ? I confess, limited as is my knowledge 
of that Olympic science, I am thrilled and awed to the soul by 
the novelty and magnitude of its discoveries. I could almost 
wish, sometimes, that this universe were less stupendous ; 
that its creation and operations were not so deeply veiled from 



332 FROSE SELECTIONS, 

human investigation. How natural was that ejaculation of 
the Psalmist — "When I consider thy heavens, the work of 
thy fingers ; the moon and stars which thou hast made ; what 
is man that thou art mindful of him ? and the son of man that 
thou visitest him ? " 

1843. _ 

Hour Eleventh. — Well, dear Lottie, I am in a merry mood 
once more — and who would not be, at the sight of that laugh- 
ing blue eye, peeping out from its bonnet of straw ? And such 
a day, too ! Why, Lottie, a very mule might be pardoned for 
a frisk or two in a sunshine so exhilarating. 

Will you go a bird's-nesting ? Not a foraging the poor 
dear things, but just to take a peep at the tiny blue eggs, or 
drop a few crumbs into the gaping mouths of the fledglings. 
No, I see you have your heart set upon a dinner of minims 
and chubs. But what will you do for fishing-tackle ? Here 
is my work-box — help yourself to pins and thread — and down 
by the brookside we can find an abundance of willow-rods. 
You laugh, but I assure you it is all the angling apparatus I 
ever use. 

Pray don't stay inhaling the very life out of those poor 
violets, if it is three long years since one has met your eye. 
I am impatient to show you my gipseying haunts. There ! 
is n't this the coziest bit of an island you ever saw ? And look 
above ! What a wealth of clematis has hung itself upon every 
bough of this young elm ! Do you think the whole islet is 
broad enough for us to sit upon ? Let us try. 

Are you a Mesmerizer ? One would suspect so, from the 
intensity with which you have been gazing at that poor 
dragon-fly for these last ten minutes. His violet-colored body 
may possess some magnetic properties, for aught I know — 
and look at his eyes ! Those round, staring, motionless orbs 
are, for all the world, a perfect miniature of Dr. O.'s, who has 
so much of the nervo-fluid, it is thought he might put the 
aurora-borealis to sleep, were he to gaze at it. 

" Oh my ! " as our friend Mr. T. says — "what a shoal of 
the tiniest little fish ! Do see them, how they dart away at 
the sound of my voice, and hide themselves in the shadow of 



PKOSE SELECTIONS. 333 

those grape-leaves. When they passed through that streak 
of sunshine, they looked like so many amphibious jewels, 
' gone in a-swimming.' " Oh Lottie ! what a sin it would be 
to eat such pretty creatures as those ! Of how many hours of 
fine frolic in these little spearmint-scented nooks and coves we 
should thus deprive them — we, who, ourselves, love frolic so 
well ! And all to gratify a momentary whim of appetite. I 
acknowledge there is a mystery about this principle of life 
which consecrates, and makes it sacred in my eyes. It is 
what we all can take away, but none of us can restore ; and it 
is not without hesitation that I destroy the life of a troublesome 
and insignificant insect. Why should I deprive it of an exist- 
ence given to it by God — and given, we may well believe, for 
purposes of use and enjoyment ? If He deemed it worthy of 
creation, ought not I, at least, to regard it as deserving preser- 
vation ? 

Oh, what a bright little cluster of cowslips ! Do you like 
them, dear ? They are becoming to your dark locks — let me 
interweave them. Mary says they are a coarse looking flower, 
and from having frequently seen them brought upon the table 
as an edible, they are not altogether poetically associated in 
the mind with salt pork and beef. Despite this misfortune, 
however, they are rather a favorite flower ; and I never see 
their golden clusters and rich green leaves growing upon the 
water's brink, without feeling a fresh glow overspread my 
innermost heart. 

Look — do look! See that green-coated, amphibious gen- 
tleman, with his hand resting gracefully upon that mossy 
stone, and his legs dangling in the water. He is the trouba- 
dour, I take it, who gives us our nightly serenades. Pray, my 
dear Sir Frog, don't fix those bright eyes of yours so insinu- 
atingly upon my friend Lottie. She loves your serenades 
much better than she loves you. But what can the fellow 
mean, hanging so long upon that stone, gazing at us poor, 
unoffending demoiselles ? You know he was Galvani's first 
subject — who knows but what his regard for science has 
induced him to offer himself as a subject for Mesmeric experi- 
ments ? Try him, Lottie. 



334 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

No — he is no martyr. Away he paddles down the bright 
current, till finally he is lost to our eyes. Farewell, gallant 
troubadour ! your music will be welcome in our hours of slum- 
ber, but Lottie and I regard you as de trop in our sylvan tetC' 
a-ttte. 

While you are braiding that wreath of violets, I will read 
you a little hymn I wrote this morning, to be sung in the tune 
— " Near the lake, where droops the willow." 

Lord of midnight and of morning, 

Hail, hail to Thee ! 
Now the golden light is dawning 

O'er rill and tree. 

Soft the dew rests on the roses, 

Fragrant the air ; 
Every flower some sweet discloses, 

Balmy and rare. 

Nature worships at her altars — 

So, too, should we ; 
Base, indeed, the heart that falters 

In loving Thee. 

Lord of Love, send down thy blessing 

On us, below ; 
Let each heart, its wants confessing, 

With fervor glow. 

None so good as Thou, Jehovah ! 

Be Thou obeyed ; 
For Thy mercy spreadeth over 

All Thou hast made ! 

E'en the humblest, lowliest creature, 

Lives by Thy care ; 
Why should we, of human nature, 

E'er, then, despair? 

Hark ! can that be the dinner-bell — so soon ? Oh Lottie ! 
where are your minims ? If the good keepers-at-home have 
not been more provident than we wild gadders-abroad, I fear 
me we must be content to make our repast of cowslips and 
water-cresses. i 

1843. I 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 335 

Hour Twelfth. — It is the first of May, — a day memor- 
able in old England for its ancient sports around the. flower- 
wreathed pole ; for its dances and shoutings upon the village- 
green ; and for a multitude of little village romances, never 
reenacted in these days of formal and artificial life, but which 
will live in the memories of ballad-readers, as one of the very 
loveliest features in the " acted poetry " of by -gone days. 

It is the first of May, — and a furious eastern storm, which 
has poured down its drenching floods through the whole past 
night, still roars and sweeps through the upper air, like an 
angry god come forth to battle. No sweet May-sports to-day 
— no, not even the gathering of a green stick to deposit in 
prophetic attitude over the door, — an interpreter of that great 
mystery in a young maiden's future destiny, namely, " Who 
will my husband be ? " 

Yet I do not regret it. I love a rainy day, occasionally. 
It throws one so much inward for sources of mental happiness, 
and seems, in a great measure, to shut out the gairishness and 
strife of the big world. Yes, even this first day of May, it is 
pleasant to sit at the chimney-corner with a blazing fire at 
one's feet, and ply the busy needle, or delve deep into the rich 
ore of a new and thought-suggestive book. 

This plying the needle, — there is real enthusiasm and 
pleasure in it, when one is in the mood. To see the shape- 
less fabric gradually assuming form and character beneath the 
operations of the fingers ; to call into requisition one's taste 
and skill, to fashion a garb of comfort and beauty, for our- 
selves or some one dear to us ; yea, even the very exercise of 
sewing is exhilarating, when the heart is in the work. 

And reading, too. No time like a rainy day for close medi- 
tative reading. The birds are not forever twittering in your 
ears on such a day, charming you away from all the music of 
written thought ; neither are the sunbeams stealing through 
your lattice, tempting you to an idle saunter in the woods ; 
but the rain, dashing in torrents upon the window-pane, serves 
as a lively " dancing-tune," to set one's ideas in rapid motion. 

1843. 



396 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Hour Thirteenth. — My gossiping soliloquy was disturbed 
by a sudden gleam of sunshine, darting through the dense 
clouds that a westerly breeze sent lumbering off over the hori- 
zon, and falling upon a red stripe in the carpet at my feet. 
An hour or two later, and all above was blue sky, with now and 
then a soft fleecy cloud resting over the tops of the woodlands. 

Some friends called, — a walk was proposed, — so adieu to 
books and needle-work, till another rainy day, said we, leaving 
them scattered upon the sofa, in that elegant disarray common 
to those whose impatient impulses are forever deaf to the 
cries of " order ! order ! " from the phrenological monitor in the 
temple. 

The wood-path through which we traced our way had lost 
none of its olden fascinations, save that it now wanted a por- 
tion of its midsummer foliage, and bright fragrant flowers. 
But there were rich, beautiful mosses, soft as velvet, and 
green as — what ? Indeed, there is nothing on earth so green ! 
And a few, very few, flowers were found, hidden beneath the 
last year's leaves, — and the May-sticks were gathered, just 
budding, like Aaron's rod, — and they might also, perhaps, be 
likened to the diviner's rod, since they were about to reveal 
to us the buried riches of our future days. (And yet, it must 
be confessed, husbands and wives are not always treasures.) 

Our party consisted of eight ladies, and one beau, who had 
arrived at the great antiquity of three years ! May-day, alas ! 
is no longer a general holiday ; and our village swains, remark- 
able rather for their industry than their gallantry, perhaps 
found more important occupations to claim their time than 
gadding in the woods for flowers. Yet it was a pleasant walk, 
nevertheless, — we all said it was a pleasant walk ; and so, 
dear friends, believe me, notwithstanding a rainy forenoon, 
and a beauless party in the afternoon. May-day was passed 
as happily in our quiet village as perhaps in any other spot 
on our globe. Good bye ! 

1S43. 

Hour Fourteenth. — Rap, rap ! at the kitchen door. " Gen- 
tleman of the house in ? " — Enter — a slight, girl-faced young 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 337 

fellow, with a mahogany frame in his hand. " Ah ! good 
evening, sir; — called to see if I could engage your hall, sir, 
to teach a writing-school in ? Here 's an ornamental specimen, 
sir. It represents Napoleon on horseback ; there, you see, is a 
comer of his cloak, flying in the wind ; there is his cap ; and see, 
there are the feet of his horse ! I have some more specimens 
I could show you, — one of a swan, and another of a flock of 
birds, — samples of penmanship, you know. I teach writing 
on a diflferent plan from your common masters. I have a rule 
and a principle for everything; — a rule for the upward stroke 
and a rule for the downward stroke of the pen ; a rule for join- 
ing the two sections of a letter together, and a rule for shading 
each letter — making four rules for every letter. Then, I have 
a rule for holding the pen, another for the position of the hand, 
and another still for the position of the arm. I also use a 
black-board, upon which I put every letter together, and take 
it to pieces again, so that the smallest scholar can understand 
what it is made of In short, sir, I have a rule and a principle 
for everything." 

Kap, rap, rap ! at the front door. In rushes a tall chap, with 
a huge portfolio under his arm. " Can't I sell the ladies some 
fine pictures ? I have a great variety, — will sell them to you 
very cheap, and put them in frames, too, for half a dollar ! " 
Here he displayed, with the complacent air of a virtuoso 
exhibiting real gems, a gaudy collection of colored prints — 
Helens, and Amandas, and Josephines, in yellow gowns and red 
pinafores ; curlj'-hcaded boys, holding up bunches of grapes, 
to tempt orange-colored dogs ; parting-sceiies, in which a sol- 
dier-lover, in blue coat and white pants, seems about to kiss a 
yellow-robed damsel, the ruby of whose lip, by some unfortu- 
nate stroke of the artist's brush, is melting and oozing itself 
down upon the lily beauty of her chin ! Then, there were 
" mourning-pieces," in which there was a weeping-willow 
drooping over the top of a white urn, beside which stood a fat 
lady in black, with a cambric handkerchief at one eye, mak- 
ing laborious efforts to weep, if one might judge from the 
large pear-shaped masses of liquid that clung to her beet- 
hued cheeks. There was a *' family-scene," too, in which the 
29 



338 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

"papa," with a parson-like rigidity of limb, sat bolt upright, 
reading from Holy Writ, while " mamma," in the stereotype 
yellow gown, was seated at the fireside, holding a baby in a 
bright red gown, with an older one, in blue petticoats, " cud- 
dled down " at her feet. 

Now, we " ladies," not being patronesses of the fine arts, 
were unable to discover the merits of these " fine pictures," 
and scarcely turned our eyes toward them, all the while the 
amateur was expatiating upon their manifold beauties ; where- 
upon he grew justly indignant at our apathy, and, upon our 
positively assuring him we could not purchase, made a very 
precipitate retreat, bearing forth his treasures to more enlight- 
ened tastes and liberal purses. 

But we were not fated long to enjoy our quiet. Another 
ponderous knock soon announced a recruit to the list of our 
peace-disturbers. " Like to subscribe for a monthly, to-day, 
ma'am 1 Anything you wish, ma'am, — Graham's, Godey's, 
Ladies' Companion, Boston Miscellany, — all the first-rate 
magazines, — fashion-plates, music, engravings, tales, poetry, 
&c. &c., by the first writers in the country. No lady pretends 
to be without one or more of these magazines. No lady can 
be a lady without them. Here 's where they come to consult 
the fashions ; here 's where they turn for their new music ; 
here 's where they enrich their minds with the current litera- 
ture of the age. Better make a selection, ma'am !" 

But we were as apathetic to the attractions of the monthlies 
as we had been previously to those of the fine pictures, and 
persisted in a very resolute denial of our patronage, which 
proved us, of course, to be no ladies .' 

These are but a few samples of the daily, and almost hour- 
ly, annoyances to which honest country people are subject, 
from vagrant speculators upon their credulity and good-nature. 
They tease, and torment, and weary you out of all patience 
and common courtesy. They offer you things you do not 
want, and cannot afford ; they urge them upon you, until their 
solicitations become an insult, and then, finding you will not 
be driven to give them your money, depart from your door 
with a sneer, and oftentimes with an inward curse. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 339 

But we sometimes have another class of wanderers. A few 
evenings since, a tall, burly-headed foreigner called, and begged 
a lodging. The night before, he said, he lay upon the " cold 
groond," and slept very little. He had followed Bonaparte 
to Moscow, and been amid " the cold snoows " there, and 
he had been " three years at Waterloo ;" but, in all his cam- 
paigns, had never suffered so much as in travelling the last 
six weeks in Massachusetts, in search of employment. Work, 
work, was what he wanted, and could not find ; and the dis- 
consolate look with which he leaned his head upon his hand, 
and wished himself back to France, proved that he was weary 
in heart as well as in frame. He was a different man in the 
morning, as I saw him marching off with a light step, and a 
smile of cheerfulness on his face ; such an invigorating and 
hope-inspiring influence has a long night's rest, followed by a 
bright spring morning. 

This morning a Virginia negro called. " De black folks do 
de white-washing and de house-cleaning for de white folks — 
can't Aaron do some for you, dear lady ? And dese are your 
daughters, are dey ? Well, dey are bery pleasant-looking 
girls, and look bery much like de mudder ! Why, deir hair 
is bery black, — blacker dan de Aaron's, — for I be a kinder 
red-top, and my grandfadder, who come from Africa, hab de 
red wool ! " 

Aaron was a comical fellow. I almost regretted that the 
white-washing and house-cleaning were done for the season, 
for he was the best specimen of a southern negro I had ever 
met ; and it was amusing to listen to his familiar chat. He 
left the house, and in a few moments I saw him at a neigh- 
bor's door, inquiring of the lady there if she had any " little 
pick-a-ninnies." 

If I had the smallest talent for humorous description, there 
are a hundred incidents occurring in our little village which 
would be worth relating. But my mirthfulness is somewhat 
like strong beer, very effervescent in itself, but very stupefying 
in its influence upon others ; and it is a little dampening to 
one's vanity to make a vehement effort to describe a scene at 
whose exhibition one has laughed heartily, and to find that 



340 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

its only effect upon the listener is to produce a dismal yawn ! 
Dear me ! How is the way to say funny things ? 
1843. 



Hour Fifteenth. — I can no longer gossip of the trees, and 
bird, and brooks ; alas ! they are far distant, and only the 
glare of red walls and the hum of busy multitudes can be seen 
or heard around me. Yet not altogether uninteresting is the 
circumscribed view beneath my window. I could talk to you 
of it for hours, it is so full of humanity. 

Directly in front, I have the variegated pole and blue paper 
packages indicative of a barber — in this instance, a genteel 
colored fellow, with black glossy curls, that speak volumes in 
favor of his skill, and whole mammoth sheets in praise of his 
comeliness. The most I have been able to learn of him dur- 
ing our six weeks' acquaintance — an acquaintance carried on 
by means of sundry interchanges of glances during those hours 
when I sit here with my needle or my pen — can be told in 
few words. He is polite when occasion requires, and like 
most of his race, good-natured and social ; but molest him in 
any way, and he is as pugilistic as a bear. Last Sabbath 
morning I was aroused by a disturbance in the street. I 
arose, and looking out of my window, saw my curly-haired 
neighbor in close combat with a drunken sailor. The sailor, 
it seems, had stolen his brush and comb, and in return was 
helped to a bed in the gutter. My neighbor's attitude was 
sublimely gladiatorial, as he stood there awaiting the renewal 
of the tar's assaults ; but the tar, poor fellow ! was in a state 
of most helpless inebriation ; and the barber's victory, though 
complete, was without glory. 

A little to the left oblique I have the perspective of a whole 
street, dignified by the appellation of Place. It is a quiet but 
not unnoticeable spot, for events of interest are daily transpir- 
ing within it. I hear, at this moment, the harsh but not 
unpleasant notes of the gipsy ballad-singer. See her stand- 
ing before the door of that brick dwelling, with her tambourine 
raised in the air! Her attitude and general appearance are 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 341 

singularly picturesque. Her straw hat with its plain green 
ribbon has a modest look, and her short skirt betrays a pretty 
little plump foot and ankle that would chann a connoisseur of 
rustic beauty. Poor girl ! she is a vagabond on the face of the 
earth ; without caste among her own sex, and subject to the 
tyranny and selfishness of the other. She laughs — but 't is a 
hollow and joyless laugh, having neither freshness nor inno- 
cence in its broken and discordant flow. She talks — but not 
the soft, fervent accents of pure and loving womanhood. 
Something gross and harrowing to the ear of delicacy falls 
from those lips, on which the dew of innocence no longer rests. 
Poor girl ! if there be one being on the face of God's earth 
who deserves the commiseration of her race, it is she, who, like 
thee, is an exile from the Eden of pure affections and an inno- 
cent life. Terrible, beyond the power of imagination to con- 
ceive, must be a life like thine, so shut out from human ten- 
derness — so bound down in the most menial servitude to the 
animal, yet yearning evermore with a hopeless agony for the 
paradise of the spiritual I Hapless lot, indeed ! And is it 
thy fate, or thy reward ? Wert thou nurtured in the bowers 
of virtue, and watched over by a pious and faithful mother ? 
or wert thou the offspring of guilt, thrown, in thine infant 
helplessness, into the dens of profligacy and crime, with no 
voice to warn thee of the perils around and before thee ? 
Who knows, save God? In his hands I leave thee, to be 
judged by a righteous and merciful judgment. 

A few weeks since, a hearse was in that street, and it bore 
away from a dwelling the chief pride and glory of its inmates. 
The husband and father is gone. Yonder now comes the 
widow, leading a little rosebud of a girl by the hand, and lis- 
tening abstractedly, but with a half smile on her face, to her 
innocent talk. She is a widow, indeed. Her soul is exceed- 
ing sorrowful. She feels exposed and helpless. How timidly 
she moves through the crowd ! Where is the arm on which 
she had once leaned so trustfully ? It shall never support her 
more ! 'T is a fearful state — this lonely widowhood ! It 
comes so suddenly after the sweet dependence, the familiar 
companionship, the unreserved trust, of connubial love. Mar- 
29* 



342 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

riage spoils a woman for solitude and for individual action. 
She yields herself up so entirely to be cared for, loved and 
defended. She is like a bird that has its nest amid bowers 
of roses, and never goes abroad to brave the storm. But alas, 
when the shelter is removed ! Alas, when the rude winds 
blow, and none is near to encourage and protect ! God be 
with and bless the widow — for she is a widow indeed ! 

Just around the curve of the street, in a little alcove formed 
by the door of a public building, sits a poor woman with a 
nursing babe. There she is, from eight in the morning till the 
sun reaches the meridian and throws its blaze into her baby's 
face, offering to passers-by her basket of apples and candy. 
Few and parsimonious are her customers ; yet 't is better than 
starving, even those few, hard-earned pennies. Will they not 
buy her a loaf for her children's supper ? ay, even purchase 
the absolution of her sins, poor, simple creature of faith that 
she is ! My thoughts are with that patient mother and nurs- 
ing babe many times in the busy day ; yes, even when I am 
gayest, and in the midst of most uncongenial scenes, the 
image of that poor old apple woman comes gliding into my 
heart. Why is she there ? Does she come to reproach me 
that never, often as I have passed her in the street, and looked 
at her with deep pity, have I spoken to her a word of kind- 
ness, or dropped a single penny in her hand ? Oh, idle feel- 
ing that prompts not to generous action ! Yet there are, fur- 
ther down the street, two of the same class, with whom I 
often stop to trade and chat — why this partiality? Ah, it is 
because they invite my custom by eager salutations ; nay, 
even quarrel if I divide my coppers, instead of giving them all 
to either one ; but she, meek creature, never speaks, scarcely 
does she lift her eyes, but sits in submissive sorrow and mute 
entreaty, hopirig what she dares not ask. And yet I pass her 
idly by — a Levite indeed I God send me better ways ! 

A little further along, and in view of my window, gleams 
the white tent of the menagerie. All around it and up and 
down the street, stand tables of refreshment, beneath little 
white awnings of cloth. Such a variety of commodities to 
please the palate ! Pies, cakes, ice-creams, root-beer, ginger- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 343 

pop ; old women with oranges, young girls with radishes, Jittle 
boys with cherries — all huddled together in one motley crowd. 
And the medley of sounds ; who can enumerate half the dis- 
cordant notes ? Here a hand-organ, and there a barking dog, 
from one an oath, from another a jest, and from the third a 
catch or two of song. " Old Dan Tucker" comes in for his 
share of favor, and "Lucy Long" takes her time with the 
rest. Then there comes a fierce growl from the royal Java 
tiger within the tent ; royal, at least, in his physical beauty 
and ferocity. The notes of the screaming macaw are heard, 
mingled with the laughter of the boys, and the screams of the 
peacock in the public garden beyond. Really, there is no end 
to the variety of Boston scenery. It is a kaleidescope, pre- 
senting, at every new view, human nature under different 
combinations and in different forms, yet interesting and in- 
structive in them all. Every day that I look abroad, I learn 
something new of my race. God grant that I may increase in 
love even more rapidly than in knowledge. Should we hate 
the world because it is wicked? Oh, no ! let us rather do as 
God does — love it, and seek to save it from its sins. It is 
the vestibule of His great temple, in which we must all put 
off the soiled sandals of a carnal pilgrimage, ere we can enter, 
with clean feet, the presence of the Immaculate. 
1843. 

Hour Sixteenth. — I would talk with you awhile about my 
old friend, Mrs. Pratt. She has lived for many years, that 
IS, ever since her marriage, in the black house upon the hill. 
You have noticed it often, for the smooth green sward that 
slopes abruptly from its very base down to the village road- 
side, and for the multitude of dandelions that gem the door- 
way, and for the patches of green moss upon its roof, and, 
more than all, for the four majestic old elms, whose branches 
hang down till they almost sweep the well-curb at the door. 

How many a delightful afternoon have I spent in that 
house, or rather, I should say, in the yard and orchard that 
surround it ; for they were no visits of ceremony that I paid 



344 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

there, and the Pratt girls never expected of me that I should 
sit still in the parlor, in the usual stupid manner of " spending 
an afternoon." No, we rambled and romped to our hearts' 
content; climbed the cherry-trees on the old broken ladder; 
hunted in the barn for hen's eggs ; jumped from the scaffold 
into the hay-mow; had a caper with the ^^ bossies" and the 
kittens ; in short, luxuriated in all kinds of rustic frolic, with- 
out a solitary suspicion that we were doing anything unlady- 
like or ungenteel. 

And then when the " tea-time" came ! Such a tablefuU of 
luxuries ! The first course usually consisted of hot cream- 
biscuits, eaten with the sweetest new butter, and the nicest 
new cheese, and honey fresh from the hive ; followed, as fast 
as possible, by various after-courses of " flap-jacks," molasses- 
gingerbread and pumpkin pie ; or, if it were the season of 
berries, blueberry pies of such a quality as none but Mrs. 
Pratt could present. 

While at tea, the old lady would amuse us with accounts 
of her success in culinary manufactures. We had the whole 
history of her soap-making, from the first " setting up" of the 
alkali, down to the day when it took upon itself the proper 
consistency of soft-soap. We were told just the number of 
times, and just the length of each time, that the refractory 
compound was stirred every day, before it would present the 
appearance that a washerwoman's eye requires ; the qualities 
of the oil and the alkali were duly dilated upon, not, to be sure, 
in scientific terms, but in language better suited to our under- 
standing ; and after tea, we were all brought into the shed to 
look at the three barrels full of soap, so thick that it could be 
moulded into balls with our hands ! Such were the triumphs 
of good housewifery. 

But the history of her new carpet was the most wonderful. 
Gibbon's Rome was nothing to it — nay, even Josephus was 
thrown into the shade. Why, she began with the very lambs 
upon the hill-side, and the white clover upon which they feed ! 
Then came the sheep-shearing, the wool-carding, the spin- 
ning, the reeling, the dyeing, the cleansing, the weaving, &c. 
&c., through octavos (and octaves) innumerable. That carpet 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 345 

— why it was the glory of a life-time — the crowning-work 
of twenty years' experience ? The hues were Titian-ic, the 
blending prismatic, the execution more than Olympic. I can- 
not say I used to enjoy myself in that old parlor quite as well 
after that carpet was upon the floor, for, to tell the truth, 
I never could quite reconcile myself to walking over so many 
newspapers and bits of rug-work as were spread upon it. To 
have stepped upon the bare carpet itself would have been 
sacrilege. The old lady would never have forgiven it. That 
carpet ! why, to lift up the corner of one of those newspapers 
once a year, and gaze for a few moments upon its green and 
crimson stripes, was better than a visit now-a-days to the 
Athenaeum Gallery. 

Emma and Lucy Pratt were not without their accomplish- 
ments, as the ornaments upon the mantelpiece could amply 
testify. What could be more exquisite than those egg-shells, 
with a circle of pink cambric hearts pasted around them, and 
the rest of the shell covered over with the pith of bulrushes, 
disposed in regular tiers ? These were hung by a pink tape 
loop, to the wall ; and beneath them stood a little pasteboard 
box, ornamented with bright figures cut from calico, and con- 
taining various little trinkets, such as glass beads, the cornea 
of a shad's eye, Guinea peas, and rock crystals. There were, 
besides, a variety of diamond-shaped pincushions, and other 
indescribable knick-knacks, testifying to the ingenuity of the 
young ladies. But the chef-d'oeuvre was Miss Emma's sam- 
pler. Emma was undoubtedly a genius. No common hand 
could have wrought the landscape that formed the base of that 
variegated silk alphabet. That pot of flowers, standing, in full 
relief, in the centre of an extensive plain, with an apple tree 
on either hand, which, by the inclination of their tops, seem 
swayed by adverse winds, one from the east and the other 
from the west, threatening to bring them in dangerous con- 
tact, were it not that the roses in the flower pot intervene to 
prevent, — surely that evinces a genius which savors not of 
the Raphael, perhaps, but certainly of the district-schooX. 

The girls, however, were gay and good, and happy and 
handsome, qualities which are as desirable as accomplish- 



346 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

ments. In due time they were courted and married, as what 
pretty girl may not be, if she chooses ? The old lady had a 
great parade of quiltings when her daughters went away. 
Never was patchwork before so neatly matched. It surpassed 
the rarest Mosaic. It was worthy of Mrs. Pratt — who could 
say more ? 

I attended the girls' wedding. They were both married in 
one day. When, for the first time, that wonderful carpet was 
revealed in its unclouded glory. The newspapers and rugs 
were all removed. Nothing disturbed the long perspective of 
those brilliant stripes. Everything else was unnoticed. Even 
the brides attracted less attention than they deserved, for they 
certainly were very prettily dressed, in their white lutestring 
silks, with clematis flowers in their hair. I watched the old 
lady. She looked the very goddess of complacency, glancing 
alternately at her blooming daughters and her still more 
blooming carpet. And then the cake ! That was, indeed, 
the crown of pride, with its tasteful trimming of clematis and 
its icing, snowy-white. I think the remembrance of that day 
of glory has never left her mind. I have noticed that a new 
ray of complacency beams perpetually from her face. She is, 
indeed the queen of housewives. 

1843. 

Hour Seventeenth. — Those blue, bewitching eyes ! how 
provokingly, for the last ten minutes, they have been tempting 
me to throw down my pen, and spin a long yarn of gossip ! 
They ought to be hung for witches, such spells do they throw 
over me in my busiest moments ; such guileful ways have 
they of drawing me away from my most serious occupations ! 
I would seal them down with kisses, and resume my task, but 
that I know they would fly open again, more dazzling and 
mirthful than before. 

Nevertheless, I have a design upon them. Sit thee down 
at my feet, saucy one, and I will tell thee a tale. About a 
mile out of our village, on a wild and lonely road, for many a 
year has dwelt a poor, old widow. Here she has passed the 
last days of a contented and inoffensive life, with no one to 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 347 

share her meals, or guard her hearthstone. Clinging to the 
homestead with that attachment that becomes so strong in the 
bosoms of the aged, she could not be induced by her children 
to forsake it, even for their protection and security. That 
little quiet house where she had lived with her husband, and 
given birth to her children ; that old table where they had sat 
with her at meat, the chairs they had occupied, all the old fur- 
niture so endeared to her by a thousand memories and asso- 
ciations, how could she exchange them for anything else in 
the wide, wide world ? So, trusting that God would take care 
of her, and that man would respect the feebleness of her sex 
and age, she has lived for many years in almost utter solitude. 
Last Sabbath evening she sat quietly reading at her fireside, 
her soul, doubtless, full of calm and pious reflections, when a 
drunken ruffian burst open her door and laid ruthless hands 
upon her person. What passed in that fearful struggle can 
only be judged from the terrible scene that awaited the inves- 
tigations of the succeeding day. With disordered attire, with 
broken bones and violent bruises, and other injuries upon her 
person, and exhibiting evidences of strangulation, she was 
found, lifeless, upon the floor — a victim of those hellish fires 
of passion, which riaii alone could inflame to such desperate 
deeds of iniquity. 

•fr- "tS- t*? t(* ^ ^ 

Are these the same dear eyes that a few moments since 
gazed into mine so roguishly ? They are very mournful now, 
telling me, as your eyes only can, the pain that has been 
created in your heart. My tale has been too horrible, and 
alas ! " ower true." How bright a faith do we need, to shine 
through the darkness of events like this ! Why should this 
poor old woman, harmless, helpless, and unprotected, be sub- 
mitted to this cruel violence beside her own hearthstone? 
Blind Superstition might answer, " It was the Avill of the Most 
High — why do ye question it ? " But enlightened Christian 
Faith, tracing every event permitted by God to the fountain 
of Mercy that lies in His bosom, fears not to look for the rain- 
bow of Divine Goodness even upon this cloud of human 
depravity, and of guiltless suffering. 



348 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Ought we to suppose, in the first place, that this poor 
woman, violent and shocking as her death certainly was, really 
experienced more physical or even mental anguish than if she 
had died of some natural disease ? Yet every day, people die 
miserably upon their beds, beneath the most tender and un- 
wearied efforts for their preservation, and no one questions, in 
these cases, the justice and goodness of God, or doubts that 
He is working for wise and holy ends. 

God, wishing to try the faith of Abraham, ordered him to 
slay his innocent son. Upon the same principle, or with the 
same purpose, doubtless, He leads us up the sacrificial mount, 
and lays a guiltless victim before us, looking into our hearts 
meanwhile, to smile on us, or frown, according as Faith shall 
pass her fiery ordeal. He does not ask of us to submit, because 
it is the fiat of a despot, whom it is death to question ; but to 
trust, because it is the dispensation of a Father, desirous only 
of our spiritual good. 

But my story has a darker page than even this. If it be 
trying to our faith to reconcile the melancholy fate of this poor 
old widow with our ideas of Infinite Goodness, is it not much 
more so to turn to the wretched author of this iniquity, and 
ask why it is that he was suffered to bring down upon himself 
this fatal burden of guilt ? To him belongs a doom as fearful 
as hers — long months of imprisonment, and perhaps a strug- 
gling death upon the gallows. But oh ! how inconceivably 
worse than these, is that guilty conscience from which she wa.s 
exempt! If there is a being on earth who needs the deepest 
commiseration of the Christian heart, it is he who has no 
refuge from outward woe in the depths of an innocent con- 
science. 

It is not the certain punishment which awaits him, that 
makes him an object of pity, if anything can properly be called 
punishment except the stings of conscience. It is his gidlt, 
aside from any suffering which it induces. It cannot be diffi- 
cult for the most innocent among us to imagine that state of 
spiritual midnight which the loss of innocence draws down 
upon the soul. God has so constituted man that he must 
abhor and loathe guilt, even while he commits it. How ter- 
rible, then, to feel its vampire claws clinging around the 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 349 

naked soul ! It is woi'se than a thousand deaths ; worse than 
years of imprisonment ; worse than all the bodily suflerings 
that can be named. Little need has any one to fear that sin 
will go unpunished. It is itself the worst of all punishments ; 
and then its train of evils — where do they end? 

Yet there are those who, fearful that the worst of fates will 
not fall upon the criminal, cry aloud for his public execution. 
" Hang him in the open eye of the world," they say, " that all 
men may be deterred from the commission of his fatal crime." 
Wretched philosophy this ! Do they not know, the preachers 
of it, that the eyes of those who would look on such a spec- 
tacle would be fixed rather upon the hangman than upon his 
victim ? Do they not know that their sympathies would all go 
with the executioner ? Every man who voluntarily witnesses 
such a scene, virtually commits murder in his heart. The 
law does not compel him to tie the cord around his brother's 
neck, but he goes, exultant, to see another do it, and glories in 
every struggle and every groan that betrays the physical ago- 
nies of the dying wretch. What better than actual murder is 
a feeling like this ? And then to think the law is instrumen- 
tal in engendering it ! 

What man, under the influence of passion, — furious, malig- 
nant passion, — would ever pause in the commission of a 
crime, to think of the terrors of the gibbet ? What restraint 
has outward law on a man who has no inward law to with- 
hold him ? If he thinks at all of its penalties, it is to contem- 
plate some mode of escaping them. I question whether the 
law ever prevents crime by its penalties. Does not its force 
lie rather in its justice ? The commandment, " Tkoii shalt not 
JcUl" is of far greater efficacy in the prevention of crime, than 
the supplementary penalty, " If thou dost, thou shalt atone 
for it with thy life." We obey a law because it commends 
some duty, or prohibits some wrong ; Twt because it threatens 
us with punishment if we disobey. Penalties are chiefly 
necessary as means of reformation after a crime is committed. 
They ought, therefore, to be always of a corrective and paren- 
tal character. Governments should he fathers ; their laws the 
precepts of fathers ; their penalties the chastisements of fathers. 
30 



350 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

But how odious, how tyrannical, how diabolical, is the revenge 
inflicted on the murderer ! Poor, g"uilty wretch ! why cannot 
he be allowed some nobler and holier expiation than the sur- 
rendering of his mere animal life ? If by tears of penitence, 
if by earnest prayers to his Father, if by long abstinence from 
vice and freedom from temptation, he shall at length renew his 
early innocence, who will not look upon his renovated soul as 
a nobler offering to Justice than all the strangled corpses that 
ever swung between the green earth and the blue heaven ? I 
often recall the words of an eloquent young advocate of the 
law of kindness, when speaking of the treatment due to the 
capital offender, should imprisonment for life be substituted in 
the place of the punishment of death. " Through the day," 
he said, " I would give him some steady employment, that 
should teach him industrious habits, and conduce to the health 
of his body and mind. When his toils were ended, I would 
not send him to a cold, gloomy cell, damp and dark, with no 
bed but a miserable pittance of straw. He should have a com- 
fortable apartment and a good fire ; — I would give him books, 
and a light to read them by ; and the Bible should lie upon 
his table ; and so, instead of a miserable den, it should seem 
to him like a home, where he could go and be at peace. Nor 
should he dwell forever in solitude, cheered only by the voice 
of his keeper. I would send him visitors — not with faces 
like gravestones and voices full of solemn cant that should 
speak to him only of his guilt ; but they should be those 
whose smiles could light up the gloom of his dungeon, and 
whose conversation should cheer, and gladden, and make him 
happy." 

Now a punishment like this is a work of loVe. And it as 
effectually protects society from his further outrages as even 
his death could do. Moreover, it is a noble practice of the 
great Christian precept of good for evil — a precept designed 
not more exclusively for individuals than for great bodies 
of society ; for all governments, and social relations between 
man and man. But my gossip is growing into a homily. 
Those eyes look fairly sleepy ! What can I say more, then, 
but — Good night ! 

1844. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 351 

Hour Eighteenth. — The point at which selfishness ceases 
to be a virtue and becomes a crime, seems to be a matter of 
doubt, even among moralists. It is not our design to attempt 
a settlement of the disputed boundary, but merely to name a 
few examples of Avhat some may call justifiable, but which to 
us appears reprehensible, selfishness. 

Our thoughts were turned upon this subject by hearing a 
song carolled through the streets at twilight. The voice was 
rich and mellow, and passed through our soul like a current 
of aroma. It might have been the mere careless outpouring 
of a happy heart, intent upon other thoughts than those of the 
melody ; be that as it may, it ran like a stream of joy through 
the long street, and who can say how many spirits beside our 
own grew fresh beneath its influence ? 

We have known singers of exquisite skill, who used their 
fascinating gift only in the service of their own vanity. They 
would sing, and sing divinely, in the presence of a choice as- 
sembly ; but to give free, unasked-for pleasure to the common 
crowd, to sing an evening serenade through the village street, 
never occurred to them as a deed promotive of their personal 
advantage ; and of course, caring for self only, they have never 
performed it. This is an example of selfishness which most 
persons would commend; but is it really commendable to 
withhold any healthful gratification from the public which we 
can aflibrd them without self-sacrifice ? 

There are also eloquent orators, who might pour streams 
of moral health into the stagnant sources of human vice, and 
change them into fountains of goodness ; but these speak only 
to intellectual assemblies who can appreciate the beauty of 
their rhetoric. Why should they cast their pearls before 
swine ? That would, indeed, be useless ; but there is pro- 
vision with which even brutes may be fed, and strengthened ; 
food, which if it be not like bride's cake, trimmed with 
flowers, may have the true elements of the bread of life. 

We have often passed beautiful gardens and parks, of which 
the owner was so jealously selfish as to surround them with 
high walls, the tops of the trees only remaining visible. We 
regard this as a very mean species of selfishness. Is it not 



Sob pkose selections. 

enough for him that he is the possessor of all this beauty, 
without secluding it from the eyes of those who are happy if 
they may be permitted but to gaze upon it through the inter- 
stices of fences ? How much sweeter smell his golden labur- 
nums and scarlet woodbines than if they were allowed to scent 
the dusty street-breeze with their dewy odors ? The very 
roses grow prudish and misanthropic in their cloister, for want 
of the sunny smiles of children peeping at them through the 
fences, and the sound of their sweet voices exclaiming, " Oh 
how beautiful ! " 

We do not expect the proprietor of a museum to throw open 
his doors gratuitously to the crowd. His stuffed snakes and 
bottled monsters are his sources of revenue, — his dependence 
for daily bread ; but the ov^mer of pleasure-grounds is exclu- 
sive from a less commendable self-interest. He is unwilling 
that the vulgar eye should admire the beauty that he has 
planned only for the praise of the fastidious. He loves not to 
see simple-hearted country people standing by his gates, look- 
ing with impunity at those rare plants which it has cost him 
so much care to gather from various climes. He grudges 
them the perfume of his choice tea-roses and splendid carna- 
tions, and would not have them catch the sweet notes of his 
caged canaries. 

A soul like this, is one which, if it had the power, would 
build walls around the glorious sunshine and the balmy air, 
and shut them up from the enjoyment of the vulgar. It is no 
excuse for him that the children pluck now and then a super- 
fluous rose ; or that thoughtless lads pilfer here and there a 
cluster of redundant grapes. He is happier and richer in 
these petty losses than he ever can be in nursing his haughty 
selfishness. We do not ask him to throw open his gates, and 
let the multitude walk in and partake freely ; we only entreat 
that the beauty which fortune has drawn to his domains, may 
be permitted to steal out and gladden the hearts of those 
whose lot is cast in desolate abodes, and to whom, after long 
inhaling an atmosphere redolent of peat-smoke and market- 
stalls, the breath of flowers is like a breath from heaven. 
Many a heart that was well-nigh spent with weariness and 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 353 

despair, has been soothed and saved by a glimpse of green 
fields and radiant blossoms. Who, then, that builds high 
walls to exclude them from the gaze of the passer-by, can tell 
how many souls he is shutting out from the kingdom of 
heaven ? And yet, such selfishness is thought no crime ! 

We might enumerate other instances of similar exclusive- 
ness, shown by the owners of libraries, and the proprietors of 
church pews ; but if we were to proceed to great length, we 
fear the half would not be told of the selfishness that darkens 
and enslaves our world. We have all need to pray daily that 
our hearts may be enlarged, and our charities multiplied ; that 
we may love ourselves more, and our neighbor as ourselves. 

1844. 

Hour Nineteenth. — It is evening. The rain, dropping 
from our cottage eaves, tinkles in the little channel it has 
worn in the loose gravel below, and now and then a stray 
drop dashes against the window-pane close by my table. No 
ray from moon or star pierces the thick gloom. Nothing can 
I see, through my green-embowered window, but the occasional 
twinkle of a neighbor's lamp, that only serves to make the 
darkness more visible. The graceful, wavy outline of the 
hills is lost. I cannot even perceive those irregular sheets of 
ice that lie thickly strown over the brown turf, giving, by day- 
light, such a mottled appearance to the whole surface of the 
earth. The tall pine, that breaks the monotony of our south- 
eastern landscape, is now entirely blent with the darkness 
that surrounds it. Hills and valleys disappear — the whole 
scene is a dead level of blackness. 

No birds sing now in the trees that canopy our roof. The 
leaves began to fade soon after they left, perhaps with grief 
that the beautiful creatures they sheltered had deserted them. 
They fell one by one, stricken dead by the first sorrow. Now 
the long boughs swing nakedly over us, or send down showers 
of heavy rain-drops and icicles, whenever the blast sweeps 
suddenly among them. But in the same proportion that the 
outer life perishes, the inner life becomes renewed. The 
mind seems to enlarge its bounds accordingly as the body is 
30* 



354 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

circumscribed. The soul has its green fields and waving 
woods, and running waters, and in and beside them, can 
refresh itself with perpetual delight. Without fatigue, it can 
ascend mountains, and gaze on illimitable scenes of air and 
earth ; or stray through grassy meadows, and feel no languor 
from the noontide heat. 

It is a beneficent ordinance of God that the mind has this 
reliance on inward sources, else where were its refuge when 
the beauty of the universe hath perished ? Yet few of us 
enlarge these sources to the extent of which they are capable. 
Very few can truly say, " My mind to me a kingdom is," 
ample for the gratification of every want. With some of us 
this may be a misfortune, but with more of us it is culpable 
negligence. Have we sent out our thoughts perpetually, like 
honey bees, to collect rich treasures from every source ? What 
if the winter come, and find our minds unstored ? It will be 
too late then to begin the work. Now, while the sunny hours 
are with us, let us provide for the day of need. 

How nobly the mind may act, independently of outward 
aids, and what glorious visions may surround it, when scenes 
of actual beauty are excluded, may be learned from the fact 
that the two greatest poems on record — those which contain 
the sublimest visions and the noblest relations — were both com- 
posed while their authors were totally blind. Loss of sight 
did not leave these mighty spirits in darkness. They were 
illuminated by inward glories, such as the eyes of the body 
never beheld. What though to Milton's " idle orbs" the sight 
did 7iot appear, 

" Of sun, or moon, or star, throughout the year, 
Or man, or woman 1 " 

Had he not the consciousness of noble deeds to cheer him ? 
Were not these far more glorious than all the myriad lights 
of heaven ? His eyes failed him in the service of liberty, and 
this thought, he says — 

" Might lead him through the world's vain mask, 
Content, though blind, had he no better guide." 

But while I have been moralizing, the wind has suddenly 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 355 

shifted to the south-west. The clouds have broken apart, and 
their silver openings, where the moon sheds her radiance, seem 
like " vistas into heaven." The droppings from the eaves stiU 
continue, but the rain no longer patters against my window. 
By twelve o'clock, the skies will be clear and starry. Then 
the winds will gather their forces for a grand assault on the 
morrow. God shelter the poor wretches exposed to their 
piercing chills ! As for me, under the shelter of a firm roof, 
and in the embraces of a stuffed arm-chair, I can bid defiance 
to their rage. 
1844. 



Hour Twentieth. — One class of personages, familiar to 
my childhood, seems of late years to have forsaken this part of 
the country. I allude to old strolling mendicants. When I 
was a little girl, there were no less than five or six individuals 
of this class, who used to make regular peregrinations through 
our village. These have all gone to their humble graves, 
beyond the reach of want, and no successor has appeared 
upon the highways, to make us forget our loss. 

There was really much good sense in the reply of that in- 
imitable old beggar, Edie Ochiltree, to the friend who pro- 
posed providing him with a steady home. " What," said he, 
" wad a' the country about do for want o' auld Edie Ochiltree, 
that brings news and country cracks frae ae farm-steading to 
anither, and gingerbread to the lassies, and helps the lads to 
mend their fiddles, and the gudewives to clout their pans, and 
and plaits rush-swords and grenadier caps for the weans, and 
busks the laird's flees, and has skill o' cow-ills, and horse-ills, 
and kens mair auld songs and tales than a' the barony besides, 
and gars ilka body laugh wherever he comes ? troth, my leddy, 
I canna lay down my vocation, — it would be a public loss." 

It is, indeed, something of a stroke to a community to lose 
a good gossip. One, I mean, given only to harmless tattling, 
and who communicates intelligence from one family to another, 
without embittering it with evil suspicions and distorted repre- 
sentations. Many an old beggar has paid for his dinner or 



356 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

lodging with a good dish of gossip, who, but for this welcome 
equivalent, would have been thrust rudely from the thresh- 
old. The beggar himself usually well understands this 
secret of success, and at every stopping-place makes it a rule 
to add as many scraps to his news-basket as he distributes 
from it. 

Very welcome was the sight of one old stroller, who never 
failed in autumn and winter to come with pockets full of nuts 
for the children. Like Edie, he wore a long gown, which 
set off to advantage his tall, erect frame, and gave him some- 
thing of the appearance of a palmer. His hair was long, 
curly, and silver-white. We knew him by the first wave of 
his gown in the distance, and awaited with eagerness the 
approach of his measured steps. How impatient we were for 
all the preliminaries and ceremonies to be finished ; how ready 
to open the door and bid him enter ; to bring him a chair, and 
ask him to sit toward the fire. We never dared be familiar 
with him. There was something in that long white hair that 
imposed awe upon our timid spirits. To stand silently in one 
corner of the room, and watch every movement, and listen to 
every speech the old man made, was the most we ventured to 
presume upon. At last, he would thrust his long bony hand 
into his pocket, and fumble among its contents, till we were 
ready to die with impatience ; but when we once got actual 
possession of the nuts, no treasure ever seemed so precious. 

I have sometimes thought it a blessing to a community to 
have a few strolling beggars ; a few, adapted as old Edie 
Ochiltree was to the profession. Not that I like the sight of 
misery, — I do not speak of miserable beggars, those who feel 
the friendlessness and degradation of their condition, — but I 
think there is a good lesson to us in the occasional visit of 
some light-hearted, sturdy old mendicant, who, without a 
roof to cover his head, and sometimes with scarce a rag to 
shelter his bosom, is nevertheless as happy and independent 
as a prince. It teaches us that it is not conditio7i, but temper, 
that gives a man contentment. Why, the beggar, resting 
under the wayside tree, and singing some old revolutionary 
ballad to the crowd of boys that gather around him, is a 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 357 

prouder and more admired man, than the orator at the capital. 
And what rich man, upon his couch of down, sleeps as soundly 
and refreshingly as he upon his bed of sweet-smelling-hay ? 
Or what epicure, at his table of dainties, fares so sumptuously 
as he upon the bounty of cold victuals spread for him upon 
the kitchen board of every dwelling he chooses to enter ? 

But the race of native, itinerant beggars, seems nearly 
extinct. Labor is so abundant, and the necessaries of life so 
easily obtained, that a lazy man has a thousand easier ways 
of subsisting than by soliciting public charity. Moreover, a 
beggar would be ashamed to be seen strolling when it is so 
fashionable to travel by steam. The spirit of the times is 
obviously unfavorable to the old institution of mendicity. It 
must pass away with slavery, rum-selling, capital punishment, 
and other relics of old ages and tyrannical codes. This is, to 
be sure, placing it in bad company — for who would not far 
rather be a beggar, than a slave, a rum-seller, or a hangman ? 
but as it seems to sustain some family relation to these old 
customs, it is evidently fated to follow in their train to the 
regions of the unreturning past. 

1844. 



Hour Twenty-first. — There is something singularly 
enlivening in the " breaking up " of winter. I have just 
been gazing out of the window, and taking note of the vari- 
ous little peculiarities that make this warm February day so 
cheering. The landscape is spotted with drifts, which look 
like island mountains heaving up from a sea of mud ; the 
water runs in little rivulets beside the streets, or forms crystal 
pools for the benefit of the doves and chickens that frequent 
vthe door-yard. The bees are out in swarms, buzzing around 
the hives, and the blue jays and chickadees flit from bough to 
bough of the leafless trees. It does one's heart good to see 
them, so hopeful, and so happy ! Hope seems to be no more 
an instinct with them than with man — it is a spirit that 
cheers universal Nature. " Hope ! " says the German poet to 
the dying flower ; " thou wilt yet live to see that the spring 



358 • PROSE SELECTIONS. 

returns. All trees that the autumnal winds destroy, hope. 
Their buds, through all the winter, hope with calm courage, 
until the sap stirs itself again, and a new verdure springs 
forth." If I were to characterize the seasons, I should pro- 
nounce Winter the period of Hope, Spring of Promise, Sum- 
mer of Fruition, Autumn of Decay. Is then autumn the 
only melancholy season ? No ! for it is as essential to the 
enjoyments of our earthly existence, that what we have loved 
to satiety should perish, as that it should be renewed again. 
Who ever truly enjoyed a pleasure of which he had never 
been deprived ? or rightly loved a friend from whom he had 
never been separated ? 

A few weeks hence the infolded buds of the lilac will burst 
into beauty, the violets steal forth from the soil, the birds hunt 
the hedges for straws and down to construct their summer 
homes, and there will be nothing in nature but renovation and 
beauty. Invalids will arise from their weary couches to 
breathe the soft air of the fields, the old will walk forth in the 
light-heartedness of second childhood, the young will shout 
and dance as though they had breathed the element of joy to 
excess, and humanity will everywhere partake largely of the 
delicious influences of the season. 

A few that we love may sleep, and the green grass may 
wave over their dust. Let us not suffer their absence to 
throw a gloom over the beauty of the earth. They roam in 
fairer fields than we, beneath a bluer sky than ours. We see 
them not — but they, from their invisible dwelling-place, look 
down upon us in joy and love. We know that we shall rejoin 
them soon. Till then, let us patiently endure and cheerfully 
enjoy this earthly life; Let the spring gladden us, and the 
summer cast over us the spell of its beauty; for God has 
made all these things to cheer and comfort us. 

Oh, if heaven be much fairer than the earth, how glorious 
indeed it must be ! If we love better there than here, how 
tenderly indeed must we love ! If its joys greatly surpass in 
richness the joys of earth, who on earth can estimate the 
happiness prepared for us then ! It is blessed indeed to know 
that not only will every evil of the present life be excluded, 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 359 

but that every joy and beauty will be a thousand fold more 
exquisite, and a thousand fold augmented, in heaven. 

In this faith let us enjoy the earth, and endure its trials ; in 
this faith live and die. 

1844. 



DEBBY LINCOLN. 

A VILLAGE STORY- 

Everybody said Debby Lincoln was a pretty girl, an amia- 
ble girl, a good girl, but would make a miserable wife. And 
when she rose up in the singing gallery, every Sabbath morn- 
ing, and led off the hymn in her sweet, bird-like voice, the 
village beaux looked at her, and thought, " True, Debby Lin- 
coln is a pretty girl, an amiable girl, a charming girl. What 
a pity it is she will not make a good wife I " 

There was one among them, however, who set at naught 
everj-^body's opinion, and verily thought in his heart that 
Debby v)ould make a good wife ; but he was a prudent lad, 
and he kept his thoughts all to himself. 

But what was the matter with Debby, that the mark of ill- 
housewifery was set upon her by those Avho were so ready to 
grant her the possession of qualifications not less desirable ? 
Ah, sad to tell, Debby was an inveterate novel^reader ! and, 
worse than that, she loved to gather wild-flowers, to walk by 
moonlight, to ramble in the woods ; and some said she was 
even so foolish as to draw pictures of old trees and broken 
fences ! 

Ah, Debby was a sad girl, to be sure, wasting her time in 
this Avay, when all the other girls in town were laying up 
treasure after treasure, in the shape of patched counterpanes, 
rose-blankets, silver spoons, and striped carpets. What if her 
cheek did grow brighter from her long rambles in the open 
air ? and what if her much reading had infused a peculiar 
grace into her manners and her speech ? Could these acqui- 
sitions counterbalance the accomplishments of churning, 
cheese-making, and wool-spinning, in which her sisters and 
female acquaintances excelled ? Poor Debby ! when her 



360 PROSE SKLECTIONS. 

mother talked to her in this wise, she hung her head very 
demurely, and wept tears of repentance over her folly; but 
her perverse nature would not be controlled, and away she 
went again, in the same old path as before. 

Well, we have said before that there was one lad who had 
a different opinion of Debby ; and he happened, one day, to 
meet her sitting upon the stile, in the apple-orchard, weeping 
very bitterly. She heard his step and raised her head to see 
who was coming. When she recognized Ben Wilson, she 
hid it again very quickly in her apron, for her eyes were red 
and full of tears, and she had rather any one should see her 
looking uncomely, than this same Master Ben. 

"Why, Debby," said he, "what is the matter?" sitting 
down on the stile at her side. 

Debby sobbed, but could n't speak a word. 

" Has Ned Wallace been a teasing you ? If he has, Debby, 
I '11 souse him into the horse-pond." 

"No, Ben, I am crying about my own bad actions." 

" Poh ! nonsense, Debby. You never did a bad thing in 
your life. Somebody has been worrying you with that fool- 
ish story that you ought to be at work, instead of reading 
novels, and walking in the fields. Never mind them a bit, 
dear, but just go on as your sweet nature prompts you." 

"Ah, Ben, but mother thinks I am very bad — not worth 
the raising ; and yet it seems to me if she loved to hear the 
birds sing and see the bright flowers springing up by the 
brook-side, as well as I do, she would not reproach me for 
rambling an hour or two every day, under the open sky. And 
then my books, Ben ; is n't it hard," — and here a plump little 
hand stole out upon his arm — " is n't it hard to be denied the 
pleasure of reading about knights, and tourneys, and lords, 
and ladies, and all the wonderful and brilliant scenes of other 
ages and other lands ? Why, Ben," she continued, forgetting 
her humiliation in the interest of her subject, and glowing 
Avith youthful enthusiasm, " you cannot think what beautiful 
dreams my reading inspires ; and how sometimes my fancy 
pictures a regal tournament, with you for one of the masked 
knights, Ben ; and O dear, a lot of nonsense which I am 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 361 

ashamed to tell, but so interesting and delightful to think 
about. Now, do you think it wrong ? " and as she put this' 
question, she looked up into his face with such a beseeching 
earnestness, that Ben, had he been a saint, would have an- 
swered, " No ! " 

" Why, Dcbby Lincoln ! " said he, " you are just like me, 
o7ily I put you in for Queen of Beauty, as I think you are !" 

"Fie, Ben, you don't think any such thing! Amanda 
Burton is your Queen of Beauty, and she wears a lock of 
your hair in her breast-pin." 

" Well, Debby, she stole it one intermission-time, at school, 
and I teased her to give it back, but she would n't. I '11 give 
you a lock, if you will accept it, for I think you are ten times 
handsomer than Amanda." 

Our readers must pardon Ben's blunt mode of gallantry, 
for he was but a boy of seventeen, unskilled in the artificial 
courtesies of the world ; and Debby, naughty girl, provoked 
him into compliments, by feigning to stand very low in his 
good graces. She felt quite proud and happy when he cut 
from his temples a long wavy tress, and wound it playfully 
about her wrist. 

" Keep it, Debby," he whispered, " for when you will see 
me again, I cannot tell." 

Debby looked up amazed. The tear glittering in his eye, 
despite his smiles, proved the seriousness of his declaration. 
"Are you going away, Ben?" she asked, in a faint voice. 

" Yes, for a long time. And I am glad of it, though I shall 
leave many things behind me that I love. Debby, dear, I am 
going to be a painter." 

" A painter ! " exclaimed Debby, in a tone of mortification ; 
"I shouldn't think that trade would please you. Do you 
mean a house-painter or a fancy-painter, or what?" 

" A house-painter and a fancy-painter, too," said Ben, 
laughing. " I shall paint both houses and fancies, I guess, if 
I succeed ; and perhaps I shall paint you, if you will let me." 

" O, I know ; you mean you are going to be an artist," ex- 
claimed Debby, brightening up at the thought of Ben's coming 
distinction. 

31 



362 PROSE SELECTIONS, 

" Yes, an artist. You know what a sleight I have in draw- 
•ing things that I see, and how I used to teach you to draw 
trees and houses on a slate, when we were schoolmates 
together. Now father, like all the people about here, thinks 
that everything that is not work is idleness ; and he has been 
out of patience with me very often for spending so much time 
in making pictures. A week or two ago, I was down to Mr. 
Pratt's paint-shop, which joins father's cow-pasture. Our old 
Buckhorn, that father thinks so much of, stood grazing before 
the window, and I asked Mr. Pratt's leave to paint her upon 
a bit of board that lay on his table. He gave me the suitable 
colors, and I succeeded, as the portrait-painters say, in getting 
a very good likeness. I ran home with it, and placed it over 
the mantel-piece. Mother has always rather encouraged my 
taste for the art, and I saw her eyes glisten as father came in 
from work, and walked up toward the fire. ' Hurrah ! ' said 
he, 'that is old Bucky herself! Is that your work, Ben?' 
' Yes,' I answered, promptly, making up iny mind to meet 
calmly reproof or approbation, as the tide might chance to 
turn. ' Well, Ben,' said he, ' I don't see anything but what 
we shall have to make a painter of you. How would you 
like to go to New York, to learn the art of my old friend M. ? ' 
' O, nothing could make me happier, father,' said I ; and 
mother, putting in her word of counsel, the matter was in a 
short time decided. I do believe if I had painted a portrait of 
mother as good as Stuart could paint, it would not have 
pleased him more than that little daub-sketch of old Bucky ! " 

" Well, Ben, I am glad you are going, on your account, but 
what shall I do, with no one to excuse my faults, and make 
me think I am worthy to share the light of God's heaven ? O, 
Ben, you are the only friend I have who is kind to me ! " and 
again the large vexatious tears gushed wilfully forth from 
Debby's hazel eyes. 

" Never mind 'em a bit, Debby, dear. They will all be 
proud of you some day, and think it an honor to be your 
acquaintance. I am sure I shall, for one. And now, since I 
may not see you again to have much talk, what little keep- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 363 

sake can I beg of you ? Some trifle or other, Debby, that I 
can look at, and say, ' This was Debby's gift I ' " 

" O, I have nothing in the world fit to give you, Ben, unless 
it be this old song-book I have carried in my pocket so long." 

" Just the thing I should have chosen ! for every time I 
open it, which will be often, Debby, and read ' Bonny Doon,' 
or ' My Highland Laddie,' or any of those favorite songs, I 
shall think of your sweet voice ringing through the hop-field 
as it did at the last picking, or starting out the swallows from 
the hay-loft in husking time. I will carry it in my spen- 
cer-pocket, close to my heart, and see then if I forget you, 
Debby ! " 

Debby smiled, and blushed, and sighed, all at once ; then 
held out her hand to bid him good-bye. 

" No, no, Debby ! I have kissed you at huskings, and for- 
feit plays, and time and again, without an excuse, when we 
were younger; would you send me off now, 7ww, Debby, 
when we may never see each other again, with a mere cold 
shake of the hand ? " 

Debby did n't know what to say, but Ben knew what to do, 
and giving her a hearty kiss on her cheek, such as the country 
girls were used to, a half century back, he was in a few min- 
utes out of sight, over the hill. 

jU, ^ ^ ^ .AL, -^L. 

Ah, me ! Time — what a magician he is ! Nothing but 
the world-old mountains, and the deluge-born hills, and the 
ever-shining firmament, can outstand his assaults ; no, not 
even Debby, the dreamer of dreams, and the worshipper of 
flowers. 

" What ! Debby grown old ? " says a saucy fellow, peeping 
over my shoulder to read my tale. 

Yes, Hal, beauty ^vUl fade, and even heroines are not proof 
against wrinkled skins, and gray hairs. We who have no 
beauty, are the only ones fully sensible of its little worth ; and 
are always kind enough to caution young men against being 
misled by it. 

" Ah, yes — but one thing, sis ; you always make your 
heroines beautiful, which I am sure you would n't do, if you 



364 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

did not think it of some value. So, you are caught there ! 
But how old had Debby grown ? " 

Why, to tell the truth, she did not number less than a score 
of years ; and such had been the peculiar influence of her 
daily rambles and bird-like freedom of soul, that her beauty 
seemed to have grown brighter and more benignant as her 
mind and bodily stature enlarged. 

She had a full, Venus form, for with characteristic perver- 
sity, she had resisted the application of whalebone and cords 
to the fine development of breathing apparatus with which 
nature had endowed her, and grew into proportions far more 
elegant than the models sent out from the statuary shops 
of the man tua -maker. The pure, healthful blood, coursing 
through her veins, gave a bright tint to her cheeks, and vivac- 
ity to every motion. 

" And all this, because she neglected her tasks, and ran 
wild in the woods, I suppose. You are inculcating unthrifty 
practices, I fear, sis." 

Not so, Hal. But be still of interrupting me, or I shall 
never get on with my story. Time, as I was saying, changes 
all things ; and not the least surprising of his transformations 
was the alteration effected in Debby's habits. She loved as 
well as ever the little " floral apostles " of the wood and field ; 
she had lost none of her taste for long solitary walks, and 
strolls by moonlight ; and, mortifying to tell, she loved, none 
the less than of old, to dream day-dreams, and read romances. 
But though she still indulged herself in a daily ramble, and 
decked her hair with wild flowers morning, noon, and night, 
and stole many a casual moment to glance at the pages of a 
favorite book, she had learned the proper dignity of labor, and 
more fully estimated, than in younger days, the strength of 
her filial obligations. Her sisters were all married, and her 
mother, growing infinn, required her constant aid. 

Behold our romping Debby, therefore, installed mistress of 
the dairy, and presiding divinity of the kitchen ! See her, 
with a wreath of pretty cabbage-flowers in her dark hair, 
standing over the chum, the rounded muscles of her white 
arms throwing the handle up and down with an effort that 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 365 

has sent the blood in bright currents to her cheeks, and made 
her eyes glow with dazzling beauty. Or look in upon her of 
a Monday morning — a time when an invasion of the kitchen 
is sacrilegious, I know — and see if the vapor-bath from the 
steaming wash-tub has dimmed the sweetness of her smiles, 
or choked the rich music of her laugh. Hear her song, too, 
mocking the notes of the bluebird upon the roof-tree ! Now 
she is out in the yard, spreading the clean linen upon the 
grass ; and who will chide her if she pauses from her task to 
smell the new-blown lilacs, or tuck away a daffodil in her bosom ? 

" But where is Ben Wilson, that he is not back to tell Deb- 
by that he loves her ? " asks that saucy Hal, peeping over my 
shoulder again. 

Why, do you not suppose Debby has lovers enough already 
at her feet without my running away to New York to bring 
her one ? The village beaux have forgotten their old doubts 
of Debby's thrift, and begin to feel the influence of pricdential 
considerations mingling with their uncalculating admiration 
of her beauty. A report is credited in the village that a no 
less personage than 'Squire Hazlitt, who has recently buried 
his old wife, and is the richest man in the neighborhood, not 
excepting even Captain Wilson, is about silencing all rivalry 
by his superior claims. And sure enough, the 'Squire must 
have some object in directing his steps toward widow Lin- 
coln's house every Sunday evening, the brass buttons glitter- 
ing on his blue coat like so many stars in the azure firma- 
ment, and his Avhite hat brushed till it rivals the gloss on the 
back of the old gander that waddles about his door-yard. 

We will follow him into the widow's, and inquire into the 
character of his pretensions. He knocks at the door, and 
Mrs. Lincoln ushers him into the parlor. 

" Miss Debby at home ? " he inquires. The widow sim- 
pers, and answers in the affirmative, then hurries off in search 
of the truant. After scanning every corner of the house, she 
hastens, as fast as her stiffened limbs will carry her, to the 
apple orchard, where she finds Debby seated on the stile, (a 
favorite seat since she parted with Ben Wilson there,) read- 
ing the book of Esther. 
31* 



366 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

" Debby ! Debby, I say ! what have you trampoosed away 
to the ends of the earth for, when you knew the 'Squire 
would be here to see ye ? " 

" Dear me ! what can the old 'Squire want, coming here to 
spoil all my Sabbath evenings? I am vexed enough with 
him, when I have so little time I can call my own ! " and 
Debby's face does wear a troubled look, as she closes the lids 
of her book, and follows her mother to the house. But her 
good nature recovers itself before she enters the parlor, and 
the 'Squire, it must be confessed, looks very much like " a 
widower bewitched," as he casts his eye on her glowing face 
and graceful figure. 

After the salutations were over, the 'Squire reseated him- 
self by the window, threw one leg over the other, and con- 
tinued as speechless as the laird of Dumbiedikes, gazing at 
Debby in wondering admiration. 

" Had you a good sermon from Dr. Green, this afternoon ? " 
at length inquired Debby. 

"Why wasn't Miss Debby there to judge for herself?" 
said the 'Squire, reversing the position of his legs, and lean- 
ing toward her in a manner which he designed should be very 
expressive. 

" I am not often a truant," said Debby, smiling, " but I was 
tempted to visit the other church, for the first time, to-day. I 
had heard much of their young pastor's eloquence, and I was 
not disappointed." 

" Ah ! Miss Debby must not be a lead sheep to beguile oth- 
ers from the true fold," gently chided the 'Squire. " I saw 
an old schoolmate of yours looking very disappointed when 
the choir arose, and you were missing." 

" A schoolmate ! " echoed Debby, turning very red, and 
looking very eager. Then dropping her eyes, she said in a 
saddened tone, " You allude to one of our usual church-goers, 
I suppose ? '■' 

" No ; I mean young Wilson, who is home on a visit." 

Poor Debby ! the glow vanished from her cheek, she was 
fearfully pale, and several minutes elapsed before she was suf- 
ficiently herself again, to be aware that the 'Squire was stand- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 367 

ing before her, laboring, by powerful blasts of air from his 
glossy beaver, to restore vitality to her nearly exhausted func- 
tions. 

" You are faint, Miss Debby." 

" O, not at all, sir. I never faint. Youi efforts are entirely 
unnecessary. I beg you will be seated." 

" At your side, Miss Debby ? " said the 'Squire, gaining 
courage from the consciousness of his generous efforts in her 
behalf. " Beg pardon. Miss Debby, but I am sure you were 
decidedly pale and languid. It is a very hot day." 

" Very," replied Debby, leaving the chair at his side, and 
seating herself in the one he had vacated at the window. 
This manoeuvre, for a while, discomposed him ; but feeling 
the necessity of resolute action, he drew his chair to her side 
again, and in set phrase, well conned over, made her a legal 
tender of his hand. 

Debby was too much accustomed to proposals of this kind 
to feel much surprise, or manifest much embarrassment. But 
it required time and patience to convince the honest 'Squire 
that his suit was really rejected ; and to his credit be it told, 
a few unaffected tears rolled down his cheeks as he pressed 
her hand in his, and bade her a kind farewell. " My home 
is lonely, Miss Debby, and you could have brightened it; but 
you know what is best for your own happiness, and I shall 
always pray that you may obtain it. Farewell ! " 

" Farewell, sir, and the Lord bless you ! " replied Debby, 
for the first time feeling a real sympathy for her kind-hearted 
wooer ; then returning to her seat by the window, she watched 
his retreat across the plain, musing intently, all the while, on 
the return of Ben Wilson. 

" I am glad I was not at church," thought she. " I won- 
der how he looks — he was a handsome boy ! The 'Squire 
thought he was disappointed in not seeing me. Poor man ! 
he judged others by himself. Six long years ! He must 
have forgotten me. I wonder if I shall see him before he 
leaves the village." These, and many other thoughts passed 
through Debby's brain, as she sat gazing on the western slcy, 
just growing scarlet in the rays of the setting sun. 



368 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Yes, six long years had passed, and Ben Wilson had worked 
busily at his art, never once allowing himself the time or the 
expense for visiting his native village, till now his name stood 
honorably among the most promising in his profession, and he 
could meet his father with a proud consciousness that he had 
proved himself worthy of his praise. In his first letters to his 
parents, he had sent frequent words of remembrance to his 
friend Debby, but as she never received them, and, con- 
sequently, sent none in return, he had dropped her name from 
his epistles, but kept it all the more sedulously in his heart. 
When he, at length, returned to his native village, he was 
not wholly unprepared, yet was grieved to the soul, to hear 
that Debby was on the eve of marriage to another. 

" It was a boyish folly to fancy that she cared for me, and 
would remember me ! " he exclaimed to himself, in meditat- 
ing on the disappointment of his long-cherished dreams. 
" She was but a little girl then, — dear Debby ! Well, she 
may have changed, — they say she has, — and grown hum- 
drum and thrifty ; in that case, I should not love her ;" and 
he tried to console himself by picturing her the antipodes of 
the wayward and beautiful playmate of his school-days. 

" She was all poetry and romance then," continued his 
thoughts, '• loving nothing so well as running in the woods, 
or reading novels under green trees. Now she makes but- 
ter and cheese, patches calico quilts, and is going to marry 
old Hazlitt, who would better serve for her grandfather ! Sic 
transit, &c., heigh-ho ! Well, 1 have but one mistress now 
— my dear, beautiful, unmercenary Art ! 0, I will love it 
more than ever, — I will marry it, and it shall know no 
rival." 

With this heroic resolution, the young man bent his steps 
toward the house of widow Lincoln. " I will call on Debby, 
just to show her I have no unfriendly feelings, and that I still 
remember her as the favorite of my childhood. To see her in 
her metamorphosis will be the speediest way to smother these 
lurking regrets. I wonder why she was not at church." Just 
as this thought was reentering his mind, he encountered 
'Squire Hazlitt, on his return from his unpropitious wooing. 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 369 

" Poor old man ! he looks as though he had not recovered 
from the grief of his wife's loss, yet," thought our artist, 
returning a courteous bow to the hurried nod of the widower. 
" Ah, Debby, he was not one of the masked and victorious 
knights in the chivalric dreams of thy girlhood ! " 

In the door-yard, he met Mrs. Lincoln. She did not recog- 
nize him till he announced his name, and inquired after his 
old friend Debby. 

" Ah, she is well — walk in, and see for yourself, sir." 

" You are going to lose her, I hear," said Ben, (we like the 
boy-name best,) choking a little, as he put the question. 

"Well, it's for her good, you know, so I shan't complain," 
said the old lady, with a most complacent laugh, and giving 
him an expressive wink. 

" Certainly not. Her good is what we all most covet ;" 
and leaving the old woman to pursue her occupation of gath- 
ering chips, he entered the old-fashioned porch, and with a 
light step, he traversed the hall to the open door of the parlor. 
Debby was still sitting, as we left her, at the window, watch- 
ing the clouds, and pulling into bits a crimson rose she held 
in her fingers. 

Ben paused and gazed at her — the humdrum dairy-maid ! 
Her hair was parted smoothly from her forehead, and fell in 
rich curls behind her ears down upon her throat. A few wild 
flowers were twisted among the braids behind. Her soft, 
hazel eyes, lighted with memories that dewed her long lashes 
with tears, were fixed with a rapt gaze upon the brilliant 
clouds that threw back a requiting glow upon her fair, dim- 
pled cheek. Never had the young artist's eyes dwelt on such 
beauty! 

He entered the room, but so quietly that Debby's trance 
was not disturbed. He stood a moment, close at her side, 
unperceived. His heart beat so loudly, he thought she must 
hear it, and he spoke, softly, " Debby ! " 

She started up, a sweet and joyous surprise gushing all 
over her face. " Why, Ben 1 " she exclaimed, cordially grasi> 
ing his hand, and looking up with a flood of gladness into his 
face. He could have hugged her to his heart, in the fervency 



370 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

of his emotions, but the chilling thought — " She is another's ! " 
— penetrated and petrified his soul. He resigned her hand, 
and murmurirtg some words of self-gratulation at meeting her 
again, took the seat 'Squire Hazlitt had recently vacated at 
her side. 

Poor Debby ! how she felt ! She had pressed his hand, 
she had called him Ben, and he was justly offended at her 
familiarity ! Blush after blush poured in upon her face and 
neck, till she w^as actually obliged to hide her eyes in her 
handkerchief, and burst into tears. Poor Debby ! how 
ashamed and humiliated she felt, and how sure she was that 
he would despise her ! 

Her friend did not quite understand the cause of her emo- 
tions, but there was something very consoling to him in the 
thought, that they were somehow connected with himself, and 
he sat without saying a word, until she had conquered her 
feelings, and was apparently calm. 

" You know not what joy it affords me to breathe once 
more the air of my own valley, the sweetest valley in the 
whole world, for it is home. I never have loved, never can 
love a city ; and to be once more amid the scenes of my boy- 
hood, with my early friends at my side, to gaze once more on. 
our own sunsets — ah. Miss Lincoln, you can imagine, from 
your own sjnmpathies, what my delight must be." 

Debby had not yet removed her handkerchief from her 
eyes, and she dreaded to do so, for fear her former embarrass- 
ment would return, and again overpower her. Those who 
have never been similarly affected will think her foolish ; we 
can only say they are happy in not being able to justify her 
from experience. Ben appreciated her feelings, and begged 
her to excuse him while he went to assist her mother, whom 
he saw from the window, bending beneath the weight of her 
chip-basket. He made his errand as long as propriety would 
admit, by chatting with the old lady, and entering with inter- 
est into all her domestic details. Debby had opportunity to 
recover herself and assume a good degree of dignity, before 
he resumed his seat She made no allusion to her emotion, 
not knowing what apology to offer, and not liking to confess 
the truth. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 371 

" You find many changes in our village since you left, I 
suppose," she remarked, anxious to find some foothold for her 
feelings in conversation. 

" Yes, many ; though not generally unpleasant ones. Most 
of my old friends are settled in life, married, with growing 
families, and apparently prosperous. These, certainly, are 
changes to which I can easily reconcile myself. Death has 
made few ravages ; I must, however, regret the loss of my 
kind old friend, Mrs. Hazlitt. I met the 'Squire — poor man ; 
— as I came this way, and I thought his grief had impressed 
itself very legibly upon his honest face." 

Wicked Ben ! how deeply he thought to probe ! And 
Debby, recalling her recent interview with the 'Squire, and giv- 
ing her own interpretation to his troubled looks, could not help 
blushing deeply, in provoking confirmation of Ben's precon- 
ceived ideas of their relationship. Of these ideas, however, 
she had no suspicion, or she would have speedily annihilated 
them ; and so Ben was left to blunder on in his foolish misap- 
prehension of her feelings. 

" Time passes more carelessly over the quiet denizens of 
the country, than he does over those who strive in the tumults 
of the crowd, I fancy," said Debby. 

" If you allude to me. Miss Lincoln, I confess he has used 
some rude chiselling upon the outer man ; but believe me, he 
has touched no heart so lightly. He could work no changes 
there, while it was shielded by this dear talisman ;" and Ben 
drew from the breast-pocket of his coat the little song-book he 
had carried there so long and faithfully, and turning to the 
blank page, showed her, in his boyish hand-writing, the date 
of their parting, with these additional words, " A keepsake 
from dear Debby." 

"I am sorry you think me changed," he continued, after 
waiting a few minutes to satisfy himself what interpretation 
he ought to give to the beautiful confusion painted in her 
expressive face. " I have formed a different opinion of your- 
self. You seem to me the same creature of impulse, intellect, 
and romantic feeling, that you used to be when we played 
together in the old school-house, and when we parted at the 



372 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Stile. You still deck your hair with wild-flowers, still gaze at 
beautiful sunsets, still laugh, and still cry, just as my sweet 
Dcbby did, long ago ! Perhaps it would have been better for 
me, and yet I should have deeply regretted to have found you 
converted into a humdrum housewife, a pattern of domestic 
thrift. It would have disturbed the harmony of your life's 
drama. You have always seemed to me a bright and beauti- 
ful star ; I could not patiently have been convinced that you 
were a mere sky-rocket, dazzling for a few brief years, to sink 
down, at last, in utter obscurity." 

"Mr. Wilson is unchanged in one respect — he still knows 
how to flatter." 

"No, I do not, Debby — for by that name I must still be 
privileged to call you. You are not, you never were, like 
those around you. Your qualities possess a brilliancy 1 have 
never witnessed in another, and a brilliancy, too, that owes 
nothing to art. But as my commendation can be of no worth 
to you, I will begin to chide. You called me Mr. Wilson, 
just now. True, the beard has grown upon my cheek, and 
my voice has a deeper bass than when we parted ; but I feel 
Ben's heart beating within my bosom yet, and if there is any- 
thing I may claim on the score of old friendship, it is that you 
call me by the name your voice has taught me to love. ' Mr. 
Wilson,' does very well for the city and the crowd, but my 
heart has been leaping up, ever since I left New York, at the 
thought that when I reached home, I should be greeted as 
'Ben' once more. But no; father calls me Benjamin, and 
mother calls me Benjamin, and the villagers, still more 
respectful, address me as Mr. Wilson ; still, I could not but 
indulge a secret hope that Debby would call me Ben. And 
so you did, in your first surprise, but I find you have stilted 
me up at last into Mr. Wilson, like all the rest." 

" Very finely it sounds for you, the first transgressor, to 
reproach me for adopting your own reserve ! Remember that 
Miss Lincoln is quite as obnoxious from your lips, as Mr. 
Wilson can be from mine." 

" Well, Debby, it was not a fault of the heart, for that ever 
thinks of you by the dearest and sweetest name. And now, 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 373 

if you will call me Ben, we shall stand pretty nearly upon the 
same footing of younger days." 

" I do call you Ben, for it is in this character that I have 
ever thought of you. And now that the preliminaries of our 
intercourse are peaceably settled, permit me to inquire into the 
character of your fortunes since we parted." 

As Ben went into a somewhat elaborate detail of his six 
years' adventures, our readers will pardon us for omitting the 
remainder of their interview. It passed pleasantly to both, 
and when they separated, Ben's heart throbbed with bitterness 
at the thought that Debby was lost to him, and Debby's with 
joy that Ben had returned unchanged. 

The next day — our narrative proceeds by days now — 
while Debby was performing the duties of the laundry, (we 
have no false pride about our heroine's occupations,) she heard 
a gentle knock at the door, and opening it with some trepida- 
tion, (for what if it should be Ben !) she Avas relieved by the 
appearance of 'Squire Hazlitt. Strange to tell, the 'Squire 
was dressed in his Sunday suit of bright blue, and wore his 
glossy beaver. 

" Your pardon. Miss Debby, for calling at this unseason- 
able hour. I intended to have delivered my message last 
evening, but circumstances to which I need not allude, and of 
a nature to put ordinary thoughts out of my mind, caused me 
to forget it. You may have heard that there is to be a 
huckleberry* party to Dob's Hill, this afternoon. I should not 
have been boy enough to have thought of going, except for 
Lucy and Mary, who would give me no peace till I promised 
to carry them. There will be room for four in the barouche, 
and if Miss Debby will make one of our party, I need not say 
how much pleasure it will afford us all." 

Debby thanked the 'Squire very cordially, and not wishing 
to pain him by refusing his kind invitation, agreed to be in 
readiness at the specified hour. 

Quite a sensation it created among the party assembled 
under the clump of trees at the foot of Dob's Hill, when 'Squire 

* Whortleberry. 
32 



374 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Hazlitt drove up his prancing grays, with a barouche full of 
gay young ladies, " Who are they?" inquired Ben Wilson, 
who stood partly behind one of the trees, in conversation 
with Amanda Burton. 

" It 's the old 'Squire, with his daughters, Lucy and Mary, 
and his bride-elect. Miss Debby Lincoln." 

" That marriage is a settled thing, then, is it. Miss Bur- 
ton?" 

" O, certainly: The lady used to be a favorite of yours, I 
believe, Mr. Wilson." 

" It was of no use. Wealth will bear away the palm. But 
it is a pity so bright a jewel should be mated with an antique 
coin." 

" Ha ! ha ! very good, Mr. Wilson. You have lost none of 
your former wit, I see. But be hist, for they are approach- 
ing us." 

Ben bowed coldly to Debby, and hastened to the young 
ladies, Lucy and Mary, who were mere children when he left 
the village. Mary Hazlitt had the reputation of a beauty, and 
she certainly was a very delicate and graceful girl. He inter- 
ested himself, therefore, in renewing her acquaintance ; and 
through the whole afternoon, devoted himself to her almost 
exclusively. 

Poor Debby ! All the beaux, believing that she belonged 
to the 'Squire, had chosen them other partners, and left her 
sitting alone on the wall. " You see how it is," said the 
kind-hearted widower, coming to her relief; "all yield consent 
to my claims but yourself. Shall I go and tell them of their 
mistake, or wiil you consent to receive my antiquated gal- 
lantries, in lieu of those that would be more acceptable?" 

" O, certainly, 'Squire, with the understanding that now 
exists between us, I would choose your attendance in prefer- 
ence to that of any gentleman present." And Debby spoke 
sincerely ; for she was vexed at Ben's coldness, and would 
have shrunk from the attentions of any other young man of the 
party. Closely by her side, therefore, hovered the 'Squire, 
filling her basket with berries, mounting the rocks to gather 
the red columbines for her hair, and bringing oak-leaves and 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 375 

thorns for the manufacture of sylvan mantles, in which 
employment he industriously assisted. 

" Do look ! " exclaimed his lively daughter Mary to her 
companion, Ben Wilson ; " see how g-allant papa has become ! 
I declare, he is braiding flowers in my fair stepmother's curls ! 
It amuses me to see how readily he assimilates to Debby's 
sentimentalisms. Is n't it astonishing that old men will be so 
bewitched by young beauty?" 

" How can you ask such a question of a young man, who, 
of course, must feel the witchery even more acutely ? " replied 
Ben, with a complimentary glance at the pretty face of Miss 
Mary. " I hope you approve of your father's choice." 

"Why, if father must marry again, I had as lief he would 
take Debby as another. She will be a companion for Lucy 
and me, which will be more pleasant than to be under the juris- 
diction of some lynx-eyed old maid, more suited to father's 
years." 

About sunset, wearied by the heat, and grieved at Ben's 
neglect, Debby descended the hill, and sat down alone in the 
shade of the trees. The 'Squire had tact enough to perceive 
that her own thoughts would be as agreeable to her as his 
company, and wisely forbore to follow. Ben, however, feeling 
that he had been unkindly negligent, availed himself of the 
first opportunity to escape from his lively companion, and join 
the dear being whom it was idle for him to love, but who was 
never absent from his thoughts. 

Debby, unwilling that he should know how much she felt 
his coldness, replied with her usual cheerfulness to his saluta- 
tions, and when he asked her to sing him one of the old songs 
which delighted his boyhood, she broke forth in a voice that 
thrilled him more than of old, and without one foolish apology, 
into the sweet and plaintive strains of " Auld Lang Syne." 
Her eyes fell on his at the close, and she saw^ they were full 
of tears. Blessed witnesses ! they atoned for all his coldness, 
all his neglect ; and once more Debby felt that he was un- 
changed. 

" See what I have found," said he, after a short pause, 
during which he had been playing with the clover-leaves on 



376 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

the turf where he sat. " A sprig of four-leaved clover ! Do 
you remember, Debby, how we used to search for them around 
your door-step ? The rhyme ran, ' One, two, put it in your 
shoe ;' and the first you met, you were doomed to wed ; ' three, 
four, put it over the dopr,' and the first who entered would be 
the spouse. Do you remember ? " 

" O, yes ; who ever forgets things like those 1" 

" And do you remember, Debby, that I, one day, gave you 
a ' four-leaf,' and made you promise to tell me the name of 
the first man or boy who went beneath it ? Do you remem- 
ber who the lucky man chanced to be ?" 

" I am sure I have forgotten." 

" It was 'Squire Hazlitt, Debby. And when you protested 
against my raillery, because he was a married man, I told you, 
laughingly, nothing was more probable than that he might be 
a widower, some day. Do you remember, Debby ? " 

Just as she was about to reply, and dispel the illusion under 
which she saw he was laboring, Mary Hazlitt, with two or 
three other wild girls, came running up to her with some won- 
derful snake-story, and occupied all the remaining time till 
they separated for their homes. 

Several days passed, and nothing was seen of the young 
artist. Debby at length heard the painful news of his illness, 
and of the dangerous sickness of his mother, both of whom 
were seized with a prevailing fever. It was now haying-time, 
and farmers and farmers' wives were alike busy. In almost 
every house, too, one or more lay ill. Debby, though busy 
enough at home, could allow none of her neighbors to suflfer 
for want of assistance. She at once regulated her household 
affairs, so that a week's absence would bring no serious labor 
upon her mother ; and tying on her bonnet, directed her steps 
to the house of Captain Wilson. She was joyfully welcomed 
by the captain, who had scoured the village over in search of 
a nurse, and was only able to secure one old woman, who was 
herself too infirm to be of much service to others. 

Debby at once took her station by the bedside of Mrs. Wil- 
son, who was alarmingly ill. Though she could do little to 
lessen the disease at its present crisis, she was capable, in 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 377 

many ways, of alleviating its discomforts, and rectifying the 
evils that had been occasioned by a want of necessary attend- 
ance. Though she would not be driven from her more suffer- 
ing patient, Mrs. Wilson's entreaties would many times in a 
day prevail on her to visit Ben's apartment, and minister to his 
wants. He, in turn, though it cost him no slight effort, would 
hasten her back to watch over his mother ; and so she passed, 
like a beneficent angel, from one couch to another, soothing 
the pains and anxieties of the invalids, and obstinately regard- 
less of her own weariness. 

One day, when Mrs. Wilson slept, Debby stole into the par- 
lor for a book. On a table lay a portfolio, containing a few 
pictures. She stopped to examine them. The first was en- 
titled " The Rustic Novel-Reader, from a painting by Benj. 
Wilson." What was Debby's surprise and emotion, to recog- 
nize her own figure, in the simple costume of early girlhood, 
standing by the well-curb, with one hand dipping the bucket, 
and with the other holding open the pages of a tattered novel ! 
A few glances at this, and she took up the second, — " The 
Boudoir of the Cottage-Girl, from a painting by B. Wilson." 
It was but another scene in her early life, where she lay, with 
her garlanded head resting on her hand, reading a favorite 
volume, while above her sang the birds, and around her 
bloomed the flowers. The third and last had a still more 
engrossing interest. It was their parting at the stile. The 
painter had chosen the moment when she placed the song- 
book in his hand ; and Debby thought he had given a very 
flattering beauty to her face. It was less flattering than thy 
mirror, Debby I 

" How can Ben be so unjust to me," thought she closing 
the portfolio, " as to suppose I am going to marry the old 
Squire! His own heart might have taught him better." 

Mrs. Wilson had now passed the crisis of her disease, and 
was rapidly recovering ; but Ben was daily growing worse. 
Mrs. Wilson's maternal alarm would permit her to receive no 
further attentions from Debby, whom she stationed constantly 
at her son's bedside ; and surely the poor girl had need of few 
entreaties to remain there while Ben was in such evident 
32* 



378 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

peril. A mother's care could not have been more assiduous 
and unwearying than hers ; but for . several days her patient 
had not the slightest consciousness of her presence, though he 
often, in his delirium, murmured Debby's name. 

But Ben was not fated to die under such skilful nursing, 
and ere a week had gone by, he was happily convalescent. 
" O, I have had such strange dreams, Debby ! " said he, one fine 
morning, holding out his hand to her as she entered the room ; 
" and I am sure, under Heaven, I owe my life to you. How 
patiently you have tended me ! and your cheek has grown 
pale, very pale, Debby dear, since I saw you at Dob's Hill. 
I fear we must send you home to recruit, for you will never 
rest while you remain with us. How can we sufficiently 
thank you for your kindness these many wearisome days past ? 
Mother has been in to see me, this morning, and has talked 
of nothing but your excellent nursing. I must paint another 
picture when I return to New York, and what shall I call it, 
Debby? — Sit down here by the bed, and throw aside your 
bonnet. — I want this rose, unless it was a gift from the 'Squire. 
May I have it, Debby ?" and he disengaged from her scarf a 
fresh-blown bud, still moist with dew. But as he did so, it 
became entangled in a small riband worn upon her neck, and 
before she could extricate it, he had drawn out from its hiding- 
place a braided ring of chestnut hair, which was attached to 
the end of it, and now fell upon his hand. 

The color rushed into his pale lips and cheeks. "Ah, Debby, 
Debby ! " he exclaimed, seizing the hand that would have re- 
claimed its treasure ; " the 'Squire's hair is gray ! Tell me if 
this be not the lock I twined around your wrist at our parting ? 
Tell me, dear Debby ! " 

Silly girl ! she betrayed herself by her blushes, notwith- 
standing she turned her head aside till Ben could see nothing 
but her crimson ear and neck. There was confession, too, in 
the very trembling of her hand. 

" Dear Debby, do say you are not going to marry the old 
'Squire." 

" If you were not sick, Ben, I would give you a serious 
scolding for having given a moment's belief to such a ridicii- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 379 

lous report. Your ' Queea of Beauty ' crowns no other knight 
than the one she did of old," said Debby, timidly, at the same 
time lifting a pretty chaplet of myrtle and. roses from the table 
where she had laid it, and binding it playfully around the 
invalid's brow. 

Happy Ben ! How rapidly he recovered on the elixir of 
Debby's love ! And how bright the remaining hours of his 
convalescence became with dreams of the time when she 
whose beauty had animated his pictures, and won him a good 
part of the distinction he already enjoyed, should be not only 
the inspiring genius of his studio, but the presiding divinity 
at his hearthstone. 

#4£. ^ ^ M, .U, 

TV' TV" "TV- TT- T^ 

" There ! that will do," says Hal, who has been following 
my story page by page. " Leave us to imagine the widow's 
surprise, Debby's happiness, and all the details of the wedding 
and the settlement. I like your story pretty well, sis, but I 
am afraid the critics will complain of it for wanting a moral." 

I have not written for a moral, Hal, but to depict a charac- 
ter, and illustrate village life in its loveliest and most poetic 
guise. Many a flower, as bright and beautiful as Debby, 
emits a life of sweetness in the glens and cottage-homes of 
our country ; and pleasant the task to me, Hal, to bring them 
out to the sunshine of such gentle sympathies as have fol- 
lowed the life of our sweet Debby from the undisciplined 
romance of early girlhood, up to its crowning glory of tested 
truth and requited love. 

1844. 



THE DEFORMED BOY. 

It was one of those soft, golden days of autumn, which seem 
like returns of Eden, that a party of young persons assembled 
in an open field for the purpose of hop-gathering. Nothing 
could make a prettier rural picture than this grouping of bright- 
eyed girls and gay young beaux beneath the large arbor they 
had formed of the graceful and luxuriant vines. There was 



380 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

scarce a girl among them that had not some green sprig or 
purple aster, or crimson cardinal-flower twisted among her 
silken locks ; scarce a boy that wore not in his straw hat a 
drooping cluster of hops, or a bright plume of golden-rod. 

Protected from the sun by their canopy of vines, and fanned 
by the breeze that rustled through it from the neighboring 
woodland, nothing could be pleasanter than their rustic employ- 
ment. So many diversions, too, were contrived to lessen its 
monotony ! One told the tale of Cinderella, a hundred times 
heard before, yet ever interesting and ever new ; another sang 
one of Burns' little songs, so appropriate for a scene of rural 
labor and festivity ; the pitcher of cool root beer was brought, 
and handed about ; old jokes were revived, and laughed at as 
heartily as though now for the first time invented ; a sly kiss 
was stolen by some roguish boy from the strawberry lips of 
the maiden at his side ; and then, to check the uproarious 
merriment, a ghost story, such as Tarn O'Shanter reduced to 
prose, or the old ballad of " Margaret's Ghost," was related 
with due solemnity by some damsel, whose story-telling talent 
made amends for the homeliness of her face. 

Among the party Avas one who, though sharing cheerfully 
in these sports, did so more through benevolent sympathies 
than from any hearty gayety of feeling. He was a lad about 
fifteen years of age, possessing one of the sweetest and most 
intelligent faces in the world, but bearing in his person the 
curse of incurable deformity. All were kind to him, and all 
loved him, but neither their kindness nor their love could drive 
away the sadness at his heart. It was not merely his deform- 
ity that made him miserable ; it was the feeling that he was 
spiritually aloTue in the world ; that the sympathy of his race 
was for his misforhme, and not for those high aspirations and 
holy emotions which were shrouded in his weak, misshapen 
frame. 

There was, however, one in that merry group who knew 
him better than he thought. This was Ellen Mayland, the 
daughter of our late physician ; a girl noted in Newburg for 
the sweetness of her temper, and the warmth of her attach- 
ments. She had known Otis Wendell all his lifetime, and 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 381 

was one of the earliest supporters of his little hobbling, awk- 
ward steps. The attachment formed between them then, had 
been a lasting one ; but Ellen, quite a woman now, saw much 
less of him than when they were schoolmates together, and 
used to sit under the green oak during the long summer noon- 
time, telling each other stories of fairies, and crying over the 
hapless fate of the " Children in the Wood." Otis feared that, 
now she had become a beautiful young lady, she would no 
longer interest herself in the poor little deformed boy who 
claimed her childish compassion. Tears came into his eyes 
when, at the close of the day, he saw her, with others, tie on 
her bonnet, and prepare to depart. Instead of joining the com- 
pany, however, she turned to him, and said, " It is not night 
yet, by an hour or more. Let us have one of our old sittings 
under the green tree. You know we used to be often together 
at twilight, watching the red rays die off from the hill-top. 
Go down with me to the old chestnut, and we can see them 
now, as beautiful as ever." 

Otis grasped her hand. " O, Ellen, it will make me too 
happy ! " 

The " old chestnut " was the pride of our village, being of 
enormous size, and growing in one of the pleasantest spots 
upon the banks of the Kattequissim. Its roots ran along partly 
above the surface of the ground, and were covered with beau- 
tiful green moss, that was kept constantly fresh by the trickling 
water welling up near the base of the trunk. Here, upon a 
dry spot of turf, the young friends found a seat. 

" Now lay your little weary head upon my knee, Otis, and 
tell me why you have not felt happy, to-day." 

He hid his beautiful face upon the folds of her dress, kissed 
them rapturously, and then, lying down so that he might gaze 
up into her eyes, rested his golden curls and glowing cheek 
upon her knee, as she desired. " How could you know I was 
not happy, Ellen ? Did I not laugh, and sing, and tell stories, 
as much as any one of the party?" 

" As much, but not as heartily. Your gayety, to-day, had 
no soul. Now tell me, are you sick, or only sad ?" 

" You know I am never well, Ellen, never quite well ; and 



382 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

I think these poor feelings often make me gloomy when I 
ought to be gay. But, O, I felt so lonely, to-day ! There 
was so much in my soul that no one sympathizes with, that 
no one understands." 

" But you will find, sympathy as you grow older. A very 
richly-endowed spirit is always lonely and unappreciated in 
its youth, being far in advance of the generation with which 
its years would class it, and yet too modest and shrinking to 
claim fellowship with the ripe spirits that precede it only in 
age. But in a few years, Otis, your mind will grow so bold 
and strong, it cannot, like a little bird, sit any longer in its 
greenwood nest, but will soar up into the eye of day, where 
all men can see and admire it. Then you will have friends 
among the good and great; you will no longer feel lonely." 

" Dear Ellen, your voice has been so long my oracle, I am 
half tempted to believe everything it predicts. But you forget 
the great obstacle that lies in my way. My soul might fly 
but for the clog of this poor body. I do not murmur at my 
lot, Ellen, yet I sometimes feel like a caged lion, strong and 
furious, but ah, so helpless, so desolate, so full of a great 
ambition that can never be satisfied ! Who ever regards me 
as anything but a being to be pitied and protected, but whose 
life must be always a burden to himself and a curse to his 
friends ? And yet, Ellen, I have a soul within me which tells 
me that I was made to act^ and not to suffer ; to minister to 
the multitude, instead of living upon their charity. You will 
think me vain and foolish, I fear ; but if I am so, you have 
more power than any one else to correct and improve me. 
Do so, Ellen. Be my monitor. Teach me how to conform 
myself to my low and miserable condition." 

The poor boy clasped his hands, and looked up into her 
face with an expression so sorrowful and beseeching, it drew 
the tears from her eyes. She bent over and touched his fore- 
head with her lips. 

" Dear Otis, I am going to make you happy, if you will but 
promise to place yourself in my power, and do whatever I bid 
you. Will you promise ? " 

" Promise ? Yes, anything, everything that you wish. I 
am yours. Do what you will with me." 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 383 

" Well, this is my plan. You must go home to your 
parents, and get their consent that you shall come and live 
with mother and me. You shall join Mr. Elliot's classes m 
Greek and Latin, and become, what I know you wish to be, a 
scholar. I have a little fortune that is, at present, lying use- 
less on my hands. This I am going to invest in your educa- 
tion. Now, don't look so wild, dear Otis, as though you 
thought this intention of mine anything out of the ordinary 
range of kindness. I have consulted mother, and she con- 
sents ; and you know I shall never be easy or satisfied till my 
plan is fulfilled." 

Otis heard this proposition with the profoundest surprise 
and emotion. " Are you really in earnest, Ellen ? If so, I 
must be in earnest, too, and tell you that I cannot be so selfish 
as to consent to your plans. What ! Ellen ; do all this for 
me, who dare not hope to repay you one half the kindness you 
have already shown me ? " 

" Otis, you must consent. You are my brother. My heart 
has adopted you. I wish your life to be a useful and a happy 
one. To be useful, you must be active. Nature has forbidden 
you to be so, physically, yet in proportion as she has disabled 
your body, she has endowed your mind. Now ask your con- 
science, whether you will so nearly fulfil your duty by deny- 
ing yourself the advantages of education through fear of 
Avronging me, as you will by availing yourself of the means 
offered to render yourself widely useful in the world. Sup- 
posing you never repay me, in any way. I shall not suffer 
by it. I have health, strength, and a love of industry. It 
would make me a thousand times happier to give all I have to 
you, without thought of recompense, than to be the mistress 
of a million, if I could not bestow it as I pleased. Do not 
deny me my will, Otis. You said, a few moments since, that 
you were mine, and that I might do with you as I chose. I 
hold you to that promise. You shall come into our family, 
and remain with us till you are prepared for college ; and O, 
my dear brother, will we not be happier than we have been 
before, dwelling under the same roof, studying from the same 
books, and trying every day to grow wiser and better ? Can 
you resist my entreaties ? " 



384 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

" O, no, Ellen, I cannot. God forgive me if I do wrong in 
accepting such a great sacrifice as you will make for me ; but 
your prayers are a law that I have no power to disobey. 
I am your brother; and I will cheerfully owe everything to 
you. God grant I may become all you hope or wish ! God 
grant I may prove worthy of your aflfection ! With your eyes 
looking into mine, I half forget I am not in paradise. All the 
angels do not live in heaven. All the bliss is not enjoyed 
there. I can now realize something of the glories and joys of 
the upper world. There all are good and beautiful like you ; 
no wonder they say it is a happy place." 

Abstracted from all the world around them, full of happy 
and holy feelings, the young friends noted not the fall of the 
dew and the increasing dimness of the twilight. They were 
aroused by a footstep near them. A person approached, whom 
Ellen recognized as Mr. Elliot, the teacher of Greek and Latin 
whom she had mentioned to Otis. 

" I fear. Miss Ellen," he said, very kindly, " I fear you have 
been thinking more of poetry and sentiment than of health, in 
remaining so late abroad. I just came from your mother, who 
is quite uneasy about you. Will you not take my arm, and 
return ? Otis, my dear boy, you shall lean upon the other. 
Forgive me for interrupting your interview. I did not know 
you were together." 

Otis declined the proffered assistance, and bidding Ellen 
good-night, took another path toward the village. " How 
much that poor boy loves you, Ellen," remarked Mr. Elliot, 
as he quitted their sight. 

"Not more than I love him," replied Ellen. " He has one 
of the noblest souls and truest hearts in the world ; but how 
little is he appreciated ! The world cruelly wrongs those who 
are physically unfortunate, by looking upon them as objects 
of pity, merely, when they may have intellect of the loftiest 
order waiting only to be encouraged to put forth glorious 
developments. This is the case with Otis. He is painfully 
sensitive to his misfortune, and has felt chained down by it to 
helpless desolation. I have been trying to cheer and uplift 
his spirit, to-night. I believe I have succeeded." 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 385 

" As you always must, Ellen, in everything you attempt. 
A dark heart must that be which would riot be cheered by 
your encouragement." 

" I have been persuading Otis," she continued, " to join 
your classes in the languages. He has consented." 

" Indeed ! w-ith what view did you counsel it ? I had sup- 
posed his parents too indifferent to his fate to make great sac- 
rifices for his education ; and, with their poverty, it must re- 
quire great sacrifices to pay the expense of a collegiate course." 

" His parents, it is true, have little feeling for him. They 
cannot appreciate the jewel God has given them in that mis- 
shapen casket. But he has friends who know him better, and 
who are willing to do everything in their power to assist him. 
If his parents do not object, he will join your classes next 
week ; and his home he will find beneath my mother's roof, 
who has the kindest affection for him, and regards him almost 
as a child of her own." 

" This will be a kindness to me, as well as to Otis. Much 
as you seek to disguise your favors to me, my heart perceives 
and appreciates them. This is the twelfth scholar you have 
obtained for me, Ellen. Two months I struggled on with but 
four; now I have twenty. O, you are everybody's good 
angel ! " 

Ellen deserved this praise. In yielding assistance or relief, 
none was so active and willing as she. When Mr. Elliot 
came to Newburg, and she learned that he had been obliged 
to give up his studies on account of ill health, and that he 
was poor, and had no friends to assist him, all her benevolent 
feelings were excited, and she went about among her acquaint- 
ances to arouse their sympathies in his behalf. He opened a 
school in the village, and Ellen had been unwearied in her 
efforts to procure him patronage. He was now much encour- 
aged. His health was every day improving, and his school 
becoming more prosperous. Can it be wondered that he 
called Ellen a " good angel ? " 

It may be supposed that Otis did not drink sparingly of the 
fountain of knowledge that was laid open to him. He de- 
voured books with a most unhealthy appetite. He pored over 
33 



386 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

them till his eyes grew large and bright, and his cheek hollow 
and fevered. The spirit within him seemed consuming its 
shrine. Ellen saw the danger, and with her customary res- 
olution, interposed. At first, she gently cautioned him ; but 
finding this ineffectual, she spoke out more decidedly. She 
reminded him of his resolution to become a benefactor to 
man ; to acquire knowledge as an intellectual lever whereby 
to raise the world. Instead of that, he was making a revel of 
his studies ; he was pursuing them to an unhealthy excess ; 
already had they intoxicated him. His brain no longer 
clearly perceived the path of duty, but was intent only on 
self-indulgence. At this reproof, Otis wept, and fell on his 
knees at Ellen's feet, promising to be guided only by her. 
She did not abuse her power. Tenderly soothing him, as a 
mother would soothe a nervous child, she brought him back 
to temperance and calm reflection. 

Two years went by, and Mr. Elliot having partially recov- 
ered his health, and completed the study of divinity, received, 
at the marriage altar, the gentle hand of Ellen Mayland. 

Very soon after her marriage, Otis left Newburg to enter 
upon his collegiate studies. We select one from among the 
many letters that he addressed to Ellen during his residence 
at Cambridge. It was written when he had been there about 
one year. 

" Camoridge, June 7, 1790. 

"Dear Ellen: — Your letter came when I was down- 
hearted, and revived me. How precious were its eloquent 
words of encouragement ! Bless you, my more than sister, 
that amid all your numerous and peculiar duties, as a wife, 
mother, and the companion of a Christian pastor, you still 
continue to interest yourself so warmly in my success. I 
never can forget how much I am your debtor. 

" Because I speak of being down-hearted, you mvist not sup- 
pose I find myself unhappy here. I have many warm friends 
who do much to encourage and improve me. And books are 
inexhaustible companions. I appreciate them more truly 
every day that I live. But my aim is not enjoyment merely. 
I have something to do in the world, and my object here is to 
acquire intellectual power to fit me for my duties. Others 



PROSE SELECTIONS, 387 

may strive for college honors, I will strive for your approba- 
tion, and to qualify myself for future usefulness in the world. 
When I was younger, Ellen, I used to mourn over my phys- 
ical misfortune ; but now I rather congratulate myself upon 
it, it throws me so entirely upon my inward strength. If I 
had the form of Apollo, I might be meditating how to display 
it most strikingly in the circles of fashion ; but now my 
thoughts are wholly devoted to the means of making my men- 
tal power counterbalance my bodily infirmity. I owe much 
of my present healthy frame of mind to your gentle and 
judicious counsel. Indeed, Ellen, what do I not owe to you ? 

" You wish to know whether I have yet decided on a profes- 
sion. Yes, Ellen, I will be a la\vyer ! You will, perhaps, at 
first, be disposed to doubt whether this opens to me the broad- 
est sphere of usefulness. You, the young wife of a clergy- 
man, will, of course, look with peculiar favor upon the sacred 
profession. Or, perhaps, you will recall the extensive useful- 
ness and benevolence of your father, and advise me to engage 
in the practice of the healing art. I disparage neither of 
these callings, Ellen, but my path is to the courts of earthly 
justice. Shall I tell you in what manner I hope to make my- 
self useful ? If there are poor men oppressed by the power- 
ful, I will defend and relieve them; if rich men commit 
virrongs against the destitute and helpless, I will rebuke them ; 
I will endeavor to conform human law to Divine lawj and 
persuade - men to carry their religion about them in their 
everyday life. Wherever I find public vice, injustice, and 
fraud, there will I work with a bold heart, and tireless zeal, 
till virtue, justice, and integrity, are substituted in their place. 
Ellen, if God will but bless my efforts, my life shall not be 
fruitlessly spent.* 

" Every day that I remain in college, I grow more in love 
with mankind. The good traits of human nature are con- 
stantly revealing themselves to me. My misfortune, which I 

* The sentiments of this paragraph are not fiction. Story-writers have 
sometimes been charged with giving too bright a coloring to their charac- 
ters. Have those who make this charge ever by kind words and true sym- 
pathies unlocked the hearts of the good and gifted, and counted the treasures 
of noble feeling and elevated motive that lie hid within 7 If so, how can 
they call fiction an exaggerated copy of nature ? It seldom equals it. 



888 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

once supposed would be a perpetual misery to me, has served 
me as an " open sesame " into the hearts of all with whom I 
associate. I wish you could know them, EUen, they are so 
kind to me. But kind as they are, they can never equal you. 
No, my dear friend, you will always remain queen of my heart! 
" Thank you for giving that little one my name. May he 
do it greater honor than I ever can hope to ! Every morning', 
Ellen, I pray for your happiness, and every evening meditate 
on your goodness. God bless your husband and child ; and, 
O, my dear friend, most devoutly do I pray, God bless you, 
forever ! 

" Your most grateful and affectionate Otis." 

While our hero is quietly pursuing his studies, we will 
return to our friend Ellen, at Newburg. Four or five years 
of her wedded life passed happily away ; two sweet children 
brightened her home, and in the love of her husband, and the 
friendship of his parishioners, she found the claims of her 
heart fuUy answered. 

But gradually her husband's health began to fail; and 
month after month wore away, bringing no encouragement or 
relief. At length he was obliged to suspend his pastoral du- 
ties, and give himself up to the cares of the nurse and the 
physician. His disease was a lingering pulmonary affection, 
which devoured him, as it were, by inches. Ellen thought a 
southern climate might benefit him, and prevailed upon him, 
after many entreaties, to remove to Florida. A year passed 
on, and although no change of a permanent nature appeared 
in the disease of the invalid, the climate seemed to retard its 
ravages, and afford some relief to his sufferings. 

But poor Ellen was harassed by other anxieties than those 
which grew out of her husband's illness. Their pecuniary 
resources were nearly exhausted, and she knew not where to 
apply for aid. It came, however, from a source whence she 
did not expect it. 

She was sitting by her husband's couch, one day, towards 
the last of the month of April. The weather was exceed- 
ingly warm, and both her children lay sleeping on a piUow at 
her feet. The invalid, also, had fallen into a light slumber, 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 389 

and Ellen, having no one to mark her tears, suffered them to 
flow freely. 

She was employed in mending an old dress for her little 
boy, for she had no means of buying new ones. They were 
already much in debt, and there was no prospect of any favor- 
able change in their circumstances. Had she desired to return 
to her friends at the North, she was without money to defray 
the expenses of the voyage, and could not bear the idea of ap- 
plying for relief to those who had already assisted her more 
than they could well afford. 

" They must not know how I suffer," thought she ; " least 
of all must Otis know it ; his heart Avould break, if he could 
not relieve me." 

A domestic now appeared at the door, holding up a letter. 
Ellen sprang forward, and eagerly grasped it. " From home ! " 
she murmured, pressing it to her lips. A glance at the post- 
mark, however, told her it was not from home, but from Otis 
Wendell. It was long since she had heard from him, and a 
thrill of joy shot through her frame, at the idea of receiving 
some tidings of her beloved friend. The letter enclosed a five 
hundred dollar bank-note, and only these few lines : 

" Dear Ellen : — God has prospered me, and may I never 
cease to bless him for enabling me to make this small acknowl- 
edgment of my great debt to you. I am practising law in 
New York, and with considerable success, which I know will 
give you pleasure. I hope your health and cheerful spirits 
are spared to you through your long and sorrowful trials, and 
that your watchings and prayers may not all be in vain. I 
had thought of going to Florida, expressly to see that you 
have the attention and comforts you need ; but important law 
business unavoidably detains me. Write to me, Ellen, a 
faithful account of your situation, and if anything is wanting 
to your happiness that human aid can supply, remember you 
have a devoted brother in Otis Wendell." 

If Ellen had wept tears of sorrow before, those which suc- 
ceeded the perusal of this letter were tears of the purest joy. 
Such unexpected relief might well gladden her heart, and 
33* 



390 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

coming from one so dear to her, one she had loved from her 
very infancy, and assisted from a low and miserable condition 
to a station of usefulness and honor, it had a threefold power 
to make her happy. 

Her husband noticed the change in her countenance when 
he awoke, and when she communicated to him the cause of 
her joy, she saw his own eye brighten with glad emotions, 
and a faint flush steal over his cheek that had been colorless 
for many long weeks. She had told him but little of her tri- 
als, but he was not so ignorant of them as she supposed ; and 
the anxiety and distress he had secretly endured for her had 
done more than disease to waste the decaying energies of his life. 

From this hour a favorable change seemed wrought in his 
system, and Ellen began to hope for his recovery once more. 
Through the summer he was able to walk out a short dis- 
tance every day, and sit at her side with cheering words to 
lighten her constant toil. November had hardly commenced, 
however, when he was again brought low by a sudden and 
alarming renewal of his old complaints. In a short time he 
was more reduced than he had ever been before, but lingered 
along through the winter, and early months of spring; and 
then a new cup of affliction was given poor Ellen in the sick- 
ness of her children. They were attacked by scarletina, and 
only two days elapsed before little Ellen, the baby, preceded 
her father by a few hours to the world of spirits. 

It was the first of May, that a gentleman made inquiries at 
the public houses of St. Mary, Florida, for the residence of 
Mr. Elliot, an invalid from New England. He was at length 
informed of his death, and of the sickness of his wife, who 
now lay in the most dangerous stages of the yellow fever, 
which had just begun to infect that city. The gentleman 
hastened immediately to her dwelling. He opened the door, 
and proceeded from room to room, finding each one deserted. 
His heart began to sink, when a low moan attracted him to a 
little apartment in the rear. Here he found Ellen, alone, 
helpless, and suffering all the horrors of that frightful pesti- 
lence. He went up to her couch, and bent over her pillow. 
She opened her eyes, and gazed at him vacantly, for a while. 
The tears rolled down his cheeks, and fell upon her fevered brow. 



fROSE SELECTIONS. 391 

" 0, Ellen ! " he passionately exclaimed, pressing her burn- 
ing hand in his. She uttered a feeble cry, and murmured 
the name of Otis ; then closing her eyes, the tears gushed 
rapidly from beneath the lids. They seemed to relieve her 
brain, for she gazed up at him more brightly than before, and 
earnestly entreated him to leave her, and escape from the dan- 
gers of the pestilence. 

" Leave you, Ellen ? Never ! till you are restored to health 
and friends. Never, Ellen, will I leave you to suffer alone, 
while my life and reason remain ! " 

Otis was true to his word. He procured every comfort and 
assistance that was needed, and watched over her with the 
tenderness of a mother. He looked after the welfare of her 
little boy, who had been early removed from the contagion, 
and carried daily tidings to the couch of the anxious invalid. 

We need not prolong the details. Ellen recovered at last, 
though very slowly and imperfectly. It was with many sad 
forebodings that Otis assisted her to embark for a northern 
climate. Her frail body seemed almost ruined by the ravages 
of sorrow and disease. Still, he hoped much from old influ- 
ences, and the careful nursing of her friends. He hoped 
much from the natural buoyancy of her spirits, and the orig- 
inal strength of her constitution. He rejoiced to see her eyes 
light up with joy when they drew near the shores of New 
England. He watched her with the intensest interest, when 
she sat sometimes upon deck, with her little boy in her arms, 
to see the deep delight she experienced in the intelligence and 
sweetness of his childish talk. The boy was very beautiful, 
and loved his mother with a depth of reverence rarely observed 
in one so young. This trait in his character did more than 
all else to wean Ellen from thoughts of the past — this, and 
her confidence in heaven. 

The first step Otis took, on his arrival at Newburg, was to 
purchase the dwelling Ellen had formerly occupied, and fit it 
up comfortably for her residence. He restored as much of the 
old family furniture as could be obtained, and, in every ar- 
rangement, delicately consulted her preferences. She knew 
him 'too well to distress his noble nature by manifesting any 
reluctance in accepting his generous aid ; and as soon as he 



392 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

saw her pleasantly reinstated in her old possessions, he re- 
turned to his business at New York. 

Otis had conquered much of his early morbid sensitiveness, 
and now moved among men as one conscious of abilities to do 
them good. He bad steadily refused political preferment, but 
in any civil capacity, was ready at all times to exercise his 
talents for the public benefit. He soon rose, as all truly great 
and good men must rise, into honor and popularity. A circle 
of warm friends and admirers gathered around him, ready to 
use every possible influence. and exertion to promote him to 
any station they could prevail on him to fill. He was too 
well satisfied with his success in doing good as a private indi- 
vidual, to court more elevated honors. It was not applause 
that he desired, though when men praised his eloquence and 
learning, he was happy to feel that his soul had risen superior 
to its early weakness, and that the life his young heart fore- 
boded would be one of misery, had been already full of activity 
and happiness. 

He was universally regarded as the friend of the friendless, 
the guardian of the weak and tempted, the benefactor of the 
suffering poor. When, at length, at a mature period of his 
life, he rose from the bar to the bench, and sustained the 
character of an upright and impartial judge, there was no 
man regarded with more universal respect and individual 
admiration than the poor little deformed boy, who, thirty 
years before, had sat at Ellen's side, and deplored, with tears, 
his lone and miserable condition. 

Among the beneficent acts of his life, none is more worthy 
of record than his kindness to Ellen's son. Not content with 
placing the mother in circumstances almost affluent, he took 
young Otis under his own guardianship, educated him at col- 
lege, and received him into his law office with all the advan- 
tages he would give to an only son. 

Ellen, who had no happiness apart from her child, also 
removed to New York, and was introduced by Judge Wendell 
into the highest circles of society as the benefactress of his 
early life, and, from infancy upward, his best beloved friend. 
She had now passed the meridian of life, but preserved the 
same cheerful sweetness of temper and kindness of heart that 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 393 

characterized her early years. Though she never quite recov- 
ered from the effects of her sickness and affliction in Florida, 
she manifested none of the languor and depression of an 
invalid. Always interesting herself in some scheme of 
benevolence, she forgot her own weakness in the real suffer- 
ings of the multitude that surrounded her, 

Otis Elliot distinguished himself in his profession, though 
he never attained to the greatnes, that marked the riper years 
of Otis Wendell. He married a lady of great wealth and 
accomplishments, who opened her splendid establishment to 
her husband's most revered friends, his mother and Judge 
Wendell, and bade them welcome to an abiding home. They 
accepted the offer with sincere pleasure. They gathered 
around one fireside — Ellen, the senior of the group, with her 
snow-white hair parted smoothly from her calm forehead, and 
her slender frame bowed with weakness and age ; Otis Wen- 
dell, the irreproachable judge, the man of countless charities, 
with his fine countenance marked with the first furrows of 
time, and bearing a look of serene dignity that was doubly 
impressive from its contrast with the physical diminutiveness 
and deformity he had borne about with him from the hour of 
his birth ; Otis Elliot, the handsome and idolizing son of an 
equally idolizing mother, with his beaming eye glancing from 
his young bride to his aged mother, and thence to his beloved 
guardian, to rest with equal tenderness upon each; and, lastly, 
the young bride herself, the link that had drawn these dear 
beings into one happy household circle, to be separated no 
more in life, with her beautiful face turned ever fondly upon 
her husband's — these all gathered daily around one board 
and one hearthstone, and presented one of the loveliest exam- 
ples ever seen, of the faithful and deep-rooted friendship, which 
increases with every added year of life, and passes out of this 
state of being to that which is more perfect, to receive an 
eternal confirmation in the immediate presence of Deity. 

1845. 



LYDIA VERNON. 
It was just sunset, when the mail coach drew up before the 
lodge at Markley gate, and gave egress to a little form wrapped 



394 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

up in a blue silk shawl, a modest chip-hat, and a green gauze 
veil. A large trunk followed, which the driver deposited in 
the empty lodge. No one appearing, to welcome or conduct 
the young stranger, she took her way alone up the long wind- 
ing avenue, uncertain whither it would conduct her, and trem- 
bling with dread of the reception she might meet from her 
rich and unknown relatives. Presently, through the openings 
in the trees, she discovered the turreted roof of a stately man- 
sion, from whose glazed towers the setting sun was reflected 
in golden radiance. Her heart beat faster than before. She 
could scarcely totter up to the steps of the door, where she 
paused, hoping some one had seen her approach, and would 
appear to usher her in. 

Her hopes were soon answered. In the parlor above were 
seated two young ladies in the alcove of a window, and before 
them stood a gentleman, not greatly their senior in years. 

" Who is that little body creeping up the path ? " said one 
of the ladies, pointing to the timid stranger, and addressing 
her lordly brother. 

" Really I cannot tell, Constance, unless it be our young 
seventh-cousin, who is expected. I just recollect that father 
gave me warning of her arrival to-night, and charged me ear- 
nestly to show her all needful attentions till his return. But 
you, fair ladies," and here the young man glanced at the dark- 
eyed beauty, " have excluded all thoughts except of your own 
sweet selves. You must suffer me now, however, to make 
atonement for my neglect ; for see ; the poor child looks really 
distressed and embarrassed." So, hastening down stairs, he 
opened the door for the little visitor. 

" Miss Lydia Vernon, I suppose," he said, kindly offering 
his hand. " Pardon me that I was not at the gate to receive 
you. You must think us quite unkind that we left you to 
find your way alone, informed as we were of the time of your 
anticipated arrival. But really, I was not aware that the hour 
was so late." 

" Oh, I found my way quite well alone ; it was not neces- 
sary you should trouble yourself to watch for me. Is Mrs. 
Markley at home, and well ? " 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 395 

" No, my father and mother are absent on a journey ; but 
my sister Constance is at home, and will be happy to see you. 
She is in the parlor; please take my arm, and I v/ill conduct 
you to her." 

Never had two sweeter or more winning voices discoursed 
together than these. Richard Markley's ^vas one that thrilled 
through the hearer like exquisite music. There seemed to 
be magic in it, so powerfully, yet tenderly, did it penetrate 
the hearts of those who listened. Lydia Vernon's had the 
same tones, the same power, only softer and more delicate ; 
and as on taking Richard's arm, she threw back the veil from 
her face, he could not but glance somewhat curiously at lips 
from which issued such enchanting music. 

Lydia had not much regular, permanent beauty ; and 
Richard, who had been gazing all day at the dazzling eyes 
and brilliant complexion of Thesta Brownell, was too much 
blinded to perceive the soft lustre of the hazel eyes that drooped 
beneath the curious glance of his own. Leading the young 
stranger into the parlor, he introduced her to his sister, and to 
her friend. Miss Bro\\iiell. After a few pleasant, but not over- 
cordial greetings, Constance conducted her to her chamber, 
and Richard took the vacant seat at Thesta's side. Again 
those tones commenced, and their winning cadences sank into 
Thesta's heart more deeply than they had ever reached before. 
Her eyes drooped beneath his admiring glances ; they grew 
dim with tears which she vainly strove to conceal ; her heart 
beat quickly, and her hand trembled like a leaf in the wind. 
Yet it was not the words, but the tones, which produced this 
effect. All the tenderness that man can feel for woman was 
breathed in the melody of his voice. Thesta's pride melted 
beneath it. The strong passion of her haughty nature was 
fully awakened, and she loved as she never could have hum- 
bled herself to love before. 

Richard saw his power, and saw it with as much triumph 
as true inward joy. Thesta was no ordinary woman. To 
gain the affections of one who had heretofore shown such a 
proud disdain for the weaknesses of her sex, was a victory 
that gratified Richard's vanity as much as it ministered to his 
love. He resolved to enjoy this feeling to the utmost; and 



396 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

for this reason he guarded his words, and gave the power 
wholly to his tones. 

Richard had some faults blended with many noble and gen- 
erous qualities. He enjoyed, too selfishly, the incense of 
woman's love, and knew, too well, the arts and gentle courte- 
sies by which it is so easily won. His delicious tones and 
devoted manners had caused suffering to more hearts than his 
benevolent hand had ever freed from want and misery. Per- 
haps he was not fully conscious of all this ; and yet what man 
was ever ignorant of the effect produced by his graceful cour- 
tesies upon hearts susceptible to kindness ? 

He w^as proud too, and exacted from others the worship he 
would not return ; yet there were depths of kindness and 
affection within him, sufficient to redeem every weakness, and 
atone for every wrong. 

Thesta Brownell shared more of his faults than of his vir- 
tues. Though superior in intellect, beautiful in person, and 
endowed with wealth and rank equal to her pride, she knew 
little of those gentle qualities that make up the real worth of 
woman. Her hand never relieved misery ; her smile never 
encouraged the sorrowing. Her associations were only with 
those who could appreciate her talents, admire, flatter and 
continually minister to her pride. With such as these, she 
could be affable and winning in the extreme ; but Richard 
Markley was the only person who had ever touched her heart, 
or usurped the throne so long and entirely occupied by self. 
She had now been a visitor at Judge Markley's for nearly six 
weeks, and was intending to pass the remainder of the sum- 
mer there ; at the termination of which period, not only she, 
but all the members of the Markley family, hoped she would 
become the betrothed of Richard. 

The arrival of so humble a personage as Lydia Vernon, a 
poor orphan relative of the Judge's, could, of course, produce 
little change in the affairs at Markley Place. She glided in 
and out, smiled and spoke, as quietly and unobtrusively as 
possible. No one thought of talking with her, except Richard, 
who was charmed with the sweetness of her voice, and touched 
by the loneliness of her situation. But he was too much 
engrossed in the progress of his power over Thesta to make 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 397 

many eiforts to entertain her. So she sat and thought of her 
humbler and happier home forever lost; and wondered whether 
she should ever be any less lonely and unnoticed than now. 
She looked forw'ard to the Judge's return with much anxiety, 
for in him she was sure of a kind and considerate friend ; but 
she felt not at all sure of pleasing Mrs. Markley, who, like her 
daughter Constance, thought all poor relations a great burden. 

One evening, a few weeks after Lydia's arrival, the little 
party at Markley Place were gathered under one of the ma- 
jestic oaks in the park, and Richard and Thesta were convers- 
ing in an animated manner upon a German poem they had 
recently been reading. Lydia, who had accompanied them 
by Richard's particular request, and who sat at his side 
because he placed her there, was listening with interest to 
their discussion. Richard attempted a quotation from the 
poem to illustrate some opinion he had expressed ; but his 
memory failing him, he called on Thesta to finish it. She 
had forgotten, or had not treasured, the particular language, 
and could not assist him. He turned laughingly to Lydia, 
and begged her to come to his aid. She raised her soft eyes, 
which were brighter than usual, and though her cheek crim- 
soned, and her voice faltered, repeated the forgotten passage 
with a peculiar grace and enthusiasm. 

Richard was surprised and charmed, for he had always sup- 
posed her an uneducated girl, and had never thought of speak- 
ing to her upon any subject connected with literature. He 
thanked her most warmly and admiringly, and turned a glance 
on Thesta to see if she did not share his surprise and delight. 

Never were beautiful features so deformed by scorn and 
anger as those of Thesta Brownell. 'T was but for a moment, 
and they resumed again their unclouded brilliancy ; but t/iat 
moment — it was one whose memory could never be obliter- 
ated. Richard's heart felt as though a swift flame had passed 
over and scathed it; while Lydia, who had also seen the look, 
sat pale and half breathless from wounded feeling. Thesta 
made an effort to continue the conversation, but Richard would 
not or could not respond, and Lydia, pleading sudden illness, 
begged to retire. Richard rose to accompany her, but she 
34 



398 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

refused his attendance, and would not lean upon his proffered 
arm. He kindly placed it around her, however, and persisted 
in helping her to the house, where he called a servant to wait 
on her, and reluctantly returned to the ladies he had left. 

This little incident opened to Richard new pages in two 
female hearts. One, it is true, gave him pain to read ; yet he 
was glad it had not been sealed too long ; and though he did 
not cease to he fascinated by Thesta's beauty, and to admire 
her brilliant mind, he found his feelings much less tender than 
he would have once thought it possible. His eyes once 
opened, he did not suffer himself to be again Winded, but 
watched every little circumstance with a critical eye, and a 
careful judgment. 

One evening there was music in the parlor. Thesta was 
the performer, and Richard turned the leaves. Among other 
pieces, she sung a tender little ballad, containing a mournful 
family history, that, chiming in with Lydia's personal experi- 
ence, affected her to tears. Richard, observing this, quitted 
his post by Thesta's side, and going up to the window where 
Lydia sat, kindly took her hand, and whispered softly, " Would 
this new home were pleasanter to you, Lydia, and you would 
not grieve so much for the old one." 

" You are very kind," she replied, looking up to him with a 
grateful smile, at the same time motioning him to leave her. 
He turned toward the piano, but Thesta had left it, and seated 
herself in the alcove. He begged her to resume the music, 
but she coldly declined, and when he persisted in his entrea- 
ties, referred him, in a scornful manner, to Miss Vernon. 

" Lydia, do you play ? " he inquired. 

But Lydia had left the room, and did not return. Richard 
sat down by Thesta, and again used all the fascination of his 
voice and manner to remove the cloud that had settled upon 
her brow. For once his power was unavailing. Her pride 
had been wounded — by a trifle, it is true; nevertheless it 
was a wound that rankled deeply for the time. " Oh beauty ! " 
thought Richard ; " would to Heaven it shone in her spirit as 
brightly as it irradiates her person ! " 

The next day Judge Markley and lady returned from their 
journey. Lydia was a great favorite with the Judge, who, 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 399 

having had frequent business with her father, had seen much 
of her from her infancy. He now took her under his special 
protection, and nearly her whole time was passed in the libra- 
ry, where she assisted him in his writing, and in hunting 
over his books for the numerous subjects he was daily examin- 
ing. Nothing could make her happier than the knowledge 
that she was useful, particularly to one she so much loved and 
respected. 

" You are my right hand," said he to her one day, " and I 
shall keep you shut up in the library with me, out of sight of 
the beaux, for I should be undone if any of them were to carry 
you away." 

" I promise never to leave you till you wish it, dear uncle," 
replied Lydia, smiling. 

" What, not if some young lawyer should require your 
assistance ? " 

" A circumstance so improbable, uncle, that we will not 
even imagine it." 

" Not at aU improbable, Lydia, not at all. There is my son 
Richard — a splendid lawyer. When he opens an office he 
will be overrun with business. What if he should come to 
beg your services ? " 

" I should not give them to him, for he could hire a dozen 
better clerks than I should make, besides having Miss Brownell 
to help him." 

" Pshaw ! Miss Brownell ? She help him ? No, she would 
require him to sit at her feet all day in devout homage, think- 
ing of no other object in the universe but her will and her 
pleasure. Thesta Brownell ? I would see her at the Cape of 
Good Hope before I would see her the wife of my dear Richard." 

" She is a very intellectual woman, indeed, uncle." 

" Yes, intellectual, and that is all you can say for her. So 
are books intellectual, and if Richard is going to marry for 
mind only, I advise him to wed my great copy of Lord Francis 
Bacon, or Locke's ' Treatise on the Understanding.' " 

" You wrong Miss Brownell, uncle. She is capable of deep 
feeling." 

" I acknowledge that ; but it is deep feeling for herself, only. 
She has strong passions, but no true, pure womanly affections; 



400 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

no pity for the afflicted ; no sympathy for the poor ; no self- 
denial ; no noble principles of benevolence and philanthropy ; 
nothing, in short, dear Lydia, worthy the love of a heart like 
Richard's. He, it is true, has his faults ; but they are not so 
deep-rooted that a gentle and skilful hand could not remove 
them. If he marries Thesta Brownell, he will become a dis- 
appointed, bitter, reckless fellow ; if he finds a wife such as I 
wish, he is capable of becoming an honor to his race." 

" You accord great influence to us poor women, uncle." 

"I do, Lydia, I do I You have it in your power to make 
us saints or devils. What the mother fails to do, the wife 
should finish. We are like wax in your hands, to be moulded 
as you will." 

" I hardly think you will find many men to agree with you," 
said Lydia, laughing, " for if I were to judge, I should say 
there were more of the sex composed of iron and adamant 
than of any softer material. But as for you, dear uncle, I 
think your heart is rather soft, or I never should have been 
able to make so good an impression," 

Their conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of 
some gentlemen on business, and Lydia retired into a little 
room adjoining the library, which was also used for a study. 
Here she found Richard, who sat leaning his head on his hand, 
gazing at the wall, rather than at the book before him. " Ah 
Lydia," said he as she entered, " I have seen but very little 
of you since father's return. Does he keep you always at 
work for him ? " 

" He asks no more of me than I wish, no, nor so much as I 
wish, to do for one to whom I owe so much." 

" Would that all had your amiable and unselfish disposition, 
Lydia. Shall I too make a demand upon your good nature, 
and ask you to read me this hard poem of Schlegel's ? I am 
puzzled to understand his meaning." 

" It is a visionary, mystical thing, but I will show you a 
little prose translation, which will, I think, give you a tolerable 
idea of his idea. 'T is in my chamber ; I will bring it." 

When Lydia returned to the study, she found Thesta there, 
and was on the point of retreating as she opened the door; 
but Richard called her in. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 401 

" Excuse me," said Thesta, haughtily. " I did not know, 
Mr. Markley, that you gave or received private lessons, or f 
should not have intruded. at this time." 

" Thesta ! " said Richard, reproachfully, as he rose to detain 
her; " Thesta !" 'Twas only a word, but sufficient to cover 
her face with crimson, as she tore herself from his hands and 
left the room. Poor Lydia burst into tears, and hid behind 
the curtain of the window. Richard was at first too much 
vexed and agitated to speak ; but after a moment or two he 
walked up to the window, and drawing her gently to him, 
prayed her most earnestly not to be pained by Thesta's un- 
happy temper, but to despise her taunts as heartily as he did. 
Unwilling to distress Richard by suffering him to see the pain 
she felt, Lydia soon regained her usual calm gentleness, and 
without alluding to what had passed, gave him the translation, 
and engaged him in conversation upon Schlegel's poem. 

Never had Richard been so sincerely charmed with Lydia 
as now. She united so much sensibility with so much gentle- 
ness, and such fine intellectual perceptions, he could not but 
feel that she realized his ideal of a perfect woman. There 
was nothing showy about her. Her whole character was as 
modest and unpretending as the little soft face through which 
it so transparently shone. But he liked her better that she 
was not showy. Her soft hazel eyes, and fair, almost pale 
cheeks, touched his heart more deeply than even Thesta's 
glorious beauty. " The eagle is a splendid bird, but after all 
a bird of prey ! What so beautiful and winning as a little 
snow-white dove that one can fold so softly to one's bosom ? " 
thought he, as he detained Lydia at his side a whole hour, 
addressing questions to her mind and heart, and receiving in 
every answer a new surprise, and a new delight. 

It was very painful to Lydia to be an object of dislike or 
annoyance to any person ; and her situation at Markley Place 
was anything but a happy one. The Judge and Richard 
were truly her friends, and treated her at all times with the 
kindest and most attentive courtesy ; but Mrs. Markley and 
her daughter were only coldly civil, while Thesta, their favor- 
ite, gave her daily proofs of the haughtiest contempt and dis- 
34* 



402 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

like. The cause of these feelings poor Lydia in vain conjec- 
tured. She never dreamed they sprang from jealousy — from 
a fear that her gentle temper, winning manners and sweet 
voice, combined with a highly cultivated mind, would capti- 
vate the heart of the proud and courtly Richard. Lydia was 
an humble being. She never dreamed of aspiring to any 
man's love — much less to that of one so superior as she 
regarded her cousin. Even his attentions, so flattering, so 
affectionate, failed to awaken one silent hope of anything 
beyond their present kindness. She had penetrated sufficient- 
ly into Richard's character to know that his devotion to woman 
was no partial and exclusive sentiment, but a courtesy univer- 
sally bestowed ; and though he had his favorites, to whom his 
voice was softer and his glance tenderer than to others, she 
believed his true love was wholly given to Thesta BrovraeU ; 
for though he saw her faults, and condemned her injustice 
toward Lydia, it did not necessarily follow that she had any 
the less empire over his heart. 

Richard was equally at a loss to account for Thesta's ca- 
pricious conduct toward himself. He knew she loved him. 
Even her caprices proved it ; but why she so highly resented 
his attentions to Lydia he could not conjecture. He thought 
jealousy inconsistent with so much pride of character ; and 
besides, his attentions had been nothing more than Lydia's 
situation in the family and her truly lady-like deportment 
demanded. He had supposed Thesta too well versed in the 
courtesies of refined life to regard these attentions as anything 
worthy of remark, or as exceeding the bounds of ordinary gal- 
lantry. But that they did offend and vex her had been ren- 
dered evident by too many proofs to be longer a matter of doubt ; 
and at the same time that Richard was flattered by his power, 
he grew disenchanted of his admiration. 

Thesta, who observed with keen eyes the slightest change 
in his manners toward herself, felt that she was losing his 
love ; but instead of attributing it to her ovm. folly, supposed 
it the effect of Lydia's attractions. Tortured by jealousy, and 
animated by the bitterest enmity tOAvard the innocent Lydia, 
Thesta continued in her gloomiest mood for many days after 
the meeting in the little study. Richard was too much vexed 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 403 

with her to flatter away her frowns, and too much pleased 
with Lydia not to persevere in his gentlest attentions, when- 
ever her presence in the parlor gave him an opportunity. But 
these occasions were so rare that he grew dissatisfied with 
confining himself wholly to parlor courtesies, and began to 
make more than daily visits to his father's library. True, 
Lydia was always too busy to talk with him, but he could 
stand by the book-shelves, taking down and rustling through 
numerous volumes, all the while that his eyes were intently 
perusing her sweet and studious face ; and it is singular that 
the more he perused it, the more interested and absorbed he 
became in the occupation. 

One morning he had stood so long rustling over the books, 
that the Judge grew somewhat fidgety at the sound, and 
advised him, if he were searching for any particular subject, to 
call upon Lydia for assistance, for Lydia knew everything 
that the library contained, and just the place to find it. 

" Do, Lydia, then, come and help me," said the young man, 
turning toward her with a slight confusion of manner — the 
first she had ever observed in him. She arose and went 
towards him, while the Judge, suddenly recollecting an 
engagement " down town," told her he should have no occa- 
sion for her services before another day, and left the room 
directly. This act was a very simple one, to be sure, but it 
had the effect of discomposing the young people materially ; 
so much so that, for the first time in his life, Richard was 
awkward. 

"What do you wish to find?" said Lydia. 

" That is the very question upon which I need your assist- 
ance, for really I do not know ! " 

" Not know your own wishes ! How can I possibly dis- 
cover them to you ? " 

"Indeed, I don't know that any better, dear Lydia. But 
let us look over these books together, and perhaps we may find 
a solution to the mystery." 

So they turned over a multitude of volumes, read aloud 
numerous passages, made a variety of comments, and at last 
sat down together in the deep, cushioned window-seat, and 
turned over the leaves of that beautiful story of Margaret, in 



404 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

Wordsworth's "Excursion." "Stop, Lydia," said Richard, 
checking her hand as she was about to turn another leaf, " I 
wish to read you one passage here. 

' She was a woman of a steady mind, 
Tender and deep in her excess of love, 
Not speaking much, pleased rather with the joy 
Of her own thoughts : by some especial care 
Her temper had been framed, as if to make 
A being, who by adding love to peace 
Might live on earth a life of happiness.' 

There, Lydia, that is just what I wish to find — such a 
woman ! " 

" I trust you have already found one in whom most, if not 
all, of these qualities unite," replied Lydia, modestly. 

" If you refer to Thesta, you are in the wrong. I confess I 
have been much fascinated by her beauty and intellect, so 
much so that I fancied myself in love ; but the illusion is dis- 
pelled ; and though I acknowledge her superior gifts, I have 
no wish to live in the blaze of them. There never has been 
any pledge between us, and it is certain, dear Lydia, that 
there never will be." 

It was also certain that Lydia's heart beat gladly at this 
assurance, for though she felt for Thesta the kindest good- 
will, she could not sincerely desire to see her the wife of 
Richard. 

" And do you regret, Lydia, that the matter has so termi- 
nated ?" 

" Frankly, Richard, I do not, for I believe, in my heart, 
that, brilliant and beautiful as Miss Brownell certainly is, she 
has not the temper to make you happy." 

" No, I have always desired a gentler and sweeter, and 
more trusting wife ; one who could forgive my faults, and 
bear patiently with my caprices. I am selfish, of course, in 
wishing such a being to unite her destiny with mine ; but I 
do verily believe, could I win one so good and loving, she 
would mould me into almost anything she desired." 

" I dare say you will find such a woman one of these days," 
replied Lydia, lowering her soft eyes beneath Richard's ear- 
nest, penetrating glance. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 405 

"Will you pray for my success in the pursuit?" he in- 
quired. 

" Certainly ; I could not neglect to pray for one who has 
always treated me with such distinguishing kindness," said 
Lydia, in soft, trembling tones, that sank into Richard's soul. 
And as she said this, there was such a swelling of tears in her 
heart, she dared not remain, but rising from her seat, cast 
upon Richard a look which said so plainly that she must go, 
that he relinquished the hand he had taken to detain her, and 
murmured a heart-felt " God bless you ! " that sounded in her 
ears for many days and weeks. 

Richard remained for a long while sitting as she had left 
him, revolving in his mind a variety of sweet and of perplex- 
ing thoughts. These were interrupted by the entrance of his 
mother. 

" You have grown studious of late," she said, taking a seat 
near him. " What cloud has passed between you and Thesta? 
Are you aware that she leaves us to-morrow ? " 

" Indeed, mother, I have been too little in her confidence of 
late to know any of her intentions. I regret that she leaves 
so soon." 

" You speak very dispassionately, Richard. It is not so 
indifferent a matter with me that Thesta leaves us, and under 
circumstances which forbid the hope that she will ever return. 
Why must you two part, who seem made for each other ? 
She loves you, Richard — most intensely loves you ; and but 
a few weeks since I felt sure your heart was equally hers. 
Why this caprice ? " 

" Mother, it is no caprice. Thesta has given me sufficient 
proof that we can never make each other happy ; and believ- 
ing this, I have ceased to love her. She is proud ; so am I. 
She is exacting ; so am I. She is vexed and angry if I am 
even civil to another woman — and, mother, you know I can 
never be ruled with such a rod. I used forbearance at first, 
for I really loved her ; but when she revenged herself on me 
by injuring the feelings of another who had never wronged 
her — t/tat I could not forgive. The spell is broken. I can 
never marry Thesta Brownell, and you must cease to wish it." 

" I know it is vain to urge anything against which you are 



406 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

resolved, but I cannot cease to toish a union in every respect 
so much, to your advantage. Thesta has beauty and accom- 
plishments, and, above all, the mind you so much prize ; she 
belongs to a rich and highly connected family, has always 
moved in the highest circles of society, and, in short, is the 
only woman I know, vv^hose circumstances in life at all corre- 
spond with your own. Have you thought of all these things, 
my son ? " 

" Is it necessary to happiness in wedded life, dear mother, 
that the parties should have been reared in the same circles, 
or that their ' circumstances in life' should exactly correspond? 
'T is a false theory, to which I cannot subscribe." 

" Ah, Richard, Lydia Vernon is at the bottom of all this 
mischief. I trace these new radical views of marriage dis- 
tinctly back to their source. I see plainly that in place of a 
noble, elegant and refined woman, you are resolved on marry- 
ing— " 

"What? mother." 

"Lydia Vernon!" 

"Thank you for uttering that simple name. I am not 
resolved on marrying Lydia, mother, until I ascertain her own 
wishes upon that point — but, indeed, I know of none nobler, 
or more elegant and refined, to whom I could possibly aspire." 

" What is she, Richard, except for your father's charity, but 
a homeless pauper?" 

" She is the orphan daughter of a distinguished though. 
poor man ; and immensely rich and independent in her own 
inward resources. Lydia is by no means a dependent on 
father's charity, though for the love he bears her, and the 
ability she has of serving him in his studies, she has consented 
to accept a home under our roof. Oh, make it a happy one 
to her, dear mother, as you value your own peace, and the 
love of Richard ! Show her more kindness and respect, and, 
believe me, you will soon discover how much she deserves it. 
No one who truly knows Lydia can fail to respect and love her." 

" I say no more, Richard, except that I am grievously dis- 
appointed. From childhood up, you have followed your own 
will, and it is hopeless for me to combat it ; therefore, marry 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 407 

Lydia, and disgrace yourself and family as much as you 
desire. I can only grieve for your perversity." 

" Mother, dear mother ! I will not reason with you, now. 
If I seem wilful, believe it is a will dictated by conscience, 
and the voice of that monitor you cannot ask me to disobey." 

Mrs. Markley left the room Avithout replying, and, more per- 
plexed than ever, Richard resumed his thoughts. 

Lydia, on retiring to her room, gave way to the sweetest 
and tenderest emotions. She was far above any feeling of 
envy or revenge, and it was wholly from another principle 
that she rejoiced in Richard's escape from a connection with 
Thesta. Superadded to this joy was the first throbbing con- 
sciousness of love — a pure, unselfish feeling, that asked 
nothing, hoped nothing, but was completely happy in its own 
young and beautiful existence. Richard's tenderness of man- 
ner, the gentleness, and reverence, and devotion of his looks 
and words, had enchained, by degrees, her whole being ; but 
she was too humble and unpresuming to think it possible she 
had inspired him with similar feelings. She believed his 
words and looks proceeded from pure kindness alone, and 
resolved that he should never know the deeper emotions he 
had excited in her own bosom. 

So well did she succeed in this resolution, that several weeks 
elapsed without Richard's making any progress in her confi- 
dence, or even satisfying his own heart whether he had won 
an abiding place in hers. We have said before, that he loved 
too well the incense of woman's affection ; and, in most cases, 
it was sufficiently obvious to him when he had obtained it ; 
but so truly and humbly did he now for the first time love, 
that all his wonted confidence forsook him, and he dared not 
breathe in words the hopes that centred in his soul. 

Near the close of a fine day in September, the Judge called 
Lydia to the door, to look at a black pony he had been pur- 
chasing. 

" 0, my own dear Jennett ! " cried Lydia, flying out into 
the yard, and throwing her arms around the pony's neck with 
a burst of joyful tears. " Dear Jennett I how do you do ? Have 
you come back again to your old mistress ? How kind in you, 
dear uncle, to think of me in this !" 



408 PROSE SELECTIONS, 

" She is yours, Lydia ; and you must never part with her 
again ! " 

" Mine ! Did you say mine ? Oh, uncle, how can I ever 
thank you enough ? You must not think me foolish for lov- 
ing this little creature so much. She is the last remaining 
relic of home. She has shared with me the caresses of my 
father's hand. She seems to me almost like a sister ! " 

Richard, who had followed her to the door, and had wit- 
nessed this exhibition of joy and tenderness, inquired how she 
had happened to part with anything so dear to her. 

" Oh, from necessity ; nothing else can take away from us 
what we love," replied Lydia. 

" Rather a fine sense of justice than necessity, in this case, 
except that with you the former phrase is synonymous with 
the latter," added the Judge. " Lydia parted with Jennett to 
pay off a last remaining debt of her father's ; a sacrifice that 
few would have made. And now, Lydia, I wish you to tie 
on your hat, and take a trot through the park, to see if Jennett 
has forgotten any of her old paces. Richard, of course, will 
be your esquire." 

*' Ten thousand thanks, father, for the suggestion. Do not 
object to it, Lydia." 

" Certainly not," said she, tripping gayly into the house. 
She returned in a few minutes, habited in her green riding-coat, 
with a pretty little velvet cap and black drooping plume upon 
her head. She had never looked so graceful and beautiful. 

Richard assisted her to the saddle, adjusted her pretty little 
foot in the stirrup, and then mounted his own horse, whose high 
head and broad flanks suited the stately bearing of its rider. 

"Why, Richard," said the Judge, "you look like an ogre 
bearing off a nymph I " 

" But I can escape him, if I am small," cried Lydia, starting 
off in a canter, that left Richard in the rear for a number of 
rods. He joined her near the gate of the park, and invited 
her to extend the ride through a wooded lane on the opposite 
side of the public road. She consented, and they pursued a 
leisurely ride of several miles, 

" Shall we not return ?" said Lydia, as they arrived at the 
verge of a long circuitous hill. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 409 

"Let us descend the hill slowly. There is a beautiful 
brook at the foot." 

Not a word was spoken during the descent. When they 
reached the brook, Richard dismounted and tied his horse by 
the roadside. Then taking the reins from Lydia's hand, he 
guided the pony down to the water's edge. A clematis-vine, 
in full feather, hung in festoons over the bars of the bridge. 
From this he plucked some long wreaths, with which he began 
decorating Jennett's head and neck. 

" Lydia," said he, leaning his arm across Jennett's mane, 
and looking up into the rider's glowing face, his own as glow- 
ing, " Lydia, I had a sweet dream as we descended this long 
hill together." 

" Had you, Richard ? So had L" 

" Indeed ! Tell me yours, will you ?" 

" I dreamed I was at home, in the dear old woodlane at 
Eastshire ; that Jennett was, as she is, my own dear gentle 
pony ; that you were my brother Henrj' ; and that I was teas- 
ing him to remain ever with me, and never to try the treach- 
erous sea again. But it was all a dream ! " 

" Ah, Lydia, you regret the dream, while I am so happy in 
the reality ! But listen to my vision, which is not of the past, 
nor present ; perhaps not even of the future, though that re- 
mains for you to determine, I thought, Lydia, that this was 
the hill of life, which you and I were descending together ; 
that this was our own quiet and shaded path ; shaded, but not 
gloomy; with sunshine stealing through every bough, and. 
birds singing on every tree. I thought you looked ever up 
into my face, as though I were your guide and protector, and 
gave all your thoughts and feelings into my charge, and re- 
garded me^as the only one on earth — the sole Adam in your 
Paradise ! Pardon the dream, Lydia, so full of self-conceit ; 
but I thought your face was so full of joy, and that it turned 
on me as sweetly and trustingly at the last as at the first ; and 
that when you spoke, the words and tones were all music ; 
and that the sweetest words by which you addressed me — 
the sweetest, dearest, most thrilling words to which I ever 
listened, were, '■My dear husband!^ Lydia, it was a dream; 
35 



410 PROSE SELECTIONS, 

a bright, dazzling dream ; can it be no more than this ? Oh, 
say to me, as you dreamed you said to your brother — ' Re- 
main ever with me ! ' " 

" Richard," said Lydia, struggling with the emotions that for 
some moments had kept her silent ; " is this a new dream, for 
the first time troubling your brain ?" 

" I have dreamed it for six weeks, Lydia, to the exclusion 
of all other thoughts. It is not one of my usual ' bewilder- 
ments,' as you may possibly suppose, Lydia. I love for the 
first time. I love without much hope, Lydia ; aware as I 
am of my numerous and culpable faults ; but, even if I ac- 
knowledge a slight hope, founded on our congenial tastes and 
feelings, you will not deem my vanity unpardonable. I am 
prepared to hear you say you do not love me ; but shut not 
out all hope that I may some day win a place in your affec- 
tions. Life would be so dark and worthless to me now, Lydia, 
if I had not you to share its enjoyments with me ! " 

" I have never hoped for this," replied Lydia, smiling through 
her tears. " It is a new and startling thought, that I am loved 
by one whom I have placed so high above me. Richard, I 
know not how to speak an untruth ; I have loved you, without 
ever dreaming it possible you cared at all for me. If it be 
indeed true that I can make you happy, here is my hand, 
dear Richard. I give it without one feeling of distrust, hoping 
it may serve you as a faithful minister of my heart. I should 
not, deeply as I love you, so readily consent to a union that I 
know your mother thinks will degrade you, were I not sure 
that it is one of the fondest hopes of your father to see me 
your wife. Your wishes and his shall rule me — or, rather, 
is it not, after all, my own wishes, which prompt me to say, 
/ am ever yours ? " 

1847. ., 

ESTHER. 

" Will Mr. Liddell come in the first stage, father ? " inquired 
George Seywood, as they sat at the breakfast table. 

" Oh ! I hope so," cried Esther, clasping her hands ner- 
vously above her plate. 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 411 

" I hope Tiot" muttered "Willie, in a demure voice at her 
side ; " it will be nothing but lessons, lessons, lessons, then ! " 

" Will Mr. Liddell pinch ears ? " slily asked little Clara of 
her mother, with a peculiar, roguish smile, that signified some 
past experience of the chastisement. 

" I think he will not arrive before night," replied Mr. Sey- 
wood to George's question ; " the first stage leaves the city an 
hour before day." 

" That is not very early, if one is going on business," said 
Esther, pouting a little. She could not bear disappointment. 

" O Esther ! Let 's put some flowers on his table. May n't 
we, mother ? " asked the uneasy little Clara again. 

" Yes," was the reply. " If you have finished your breakfast 
you may each of you gather a bouquet for Mr. Liddell's table." 

*' Oh, good ! " cried the children, springing from their seats, 
and rushing to the garden. " I '11 have the biggest ;" " I '11 
have the prettiest ;" " I '11 have roses ;" " I will get some vio- 
lets," were the confused shouts that broke in through the win- 
dow, as they dispersed in their several pursuits. 

" I feel anxious about this Mr. Liddell," said Mrs. Sey wood 
to her husband when they Avere left alone. " The children 
have been so long under Master Morrell's care, and this gen- 
tleman is so young ! " 

" Young, it is true, but his manners are dignified, and he 
seems to have uncommon stability of character. Master 
Morrell is faithful as a teacher, but only think of his manners ! 
Esther, especially, spends half her time in mimicking his peculi- 
arities — shuffling her feet, pulling the tip of her nose, &c., till 
the poor old man has become nothing but their laughing-stock." 

" Esther is a little wild, I fear ; and it is particularly on her 
account that I feel anxious about so young a tutor." 

" What ! " said Mr. Seywood, laughing. " You don't think 
Esther old enough to be getting up any romances, do you ? 
Let 's see ; is she eleven or twelve ? " 

" Fourteen, last Wednesday. Not old enough for romances, 
perhaps, but too old to be playing tricks on a young man." 

" Poor child, how homely she grows ! Her form is a com- 
plete bean-pole. What a pity it is her hair cannot change two 
or three shades darker." 



412 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

" Her hair ! why it is perfectly beautiful, if you could only 
keep it from flying all over the world. It is as soft and glossy 
as untwisted silk, and I am sure the color, that beautiful dark 
brown red, would have quite charmed one of the old painters. 
I will say nothing of her form and face. She is at a green 
age, when nothing about her is properly developed ; but her 
brown eyes beam with inexpressible softness and fire when 
her heart and soul are touched, and her blush is exquisite — 
but I see you are laughing at me." 

" A mother's eyes always look through the glass of the 
imagination, which will account for the fine coloring you give 
to poor Esther's charms. I do think, however, the child is 
remarkable in her character and intellect. Yet she is very 
odd and ill-tempered. Are you not aware of it ? " 

" Ill-tempered ? Oh no, only irritable from too much sensi- 
bility. She has the temperament of genius, for which we 
must, of course, make allowances." 

" The only trouble is, my dear, you allow everything; or at 
least we may say a few more reproofs would not be without 
good fruit." 

The conversation of the parents was here interrupted by the 
return of the two younger children ; Clara, with a handful of 
African marigolds, nasturtions and escholtzias, which in her 
eyes were the pride of the garden ; and Willie, who, though 
not a lazy boy, never accomplished anything, with one or two 
white lilies and a late summer rose. 

The mother smiled, and arranged the bouquets, attaching to 
each a label with these words, " A gift from Willie," " A gift 
from Clara." They were set in separate glasses of water, and 
carefully conveyed to the new tutor's apartment. George 
came next from the greenhouse, with his tea-roses, his gera- 
niums and camellias, but Esther delayed so long that her 
mother was just going in search of her, when she returned. 
She had been more careful in her selection, and yet her bouquet 
was the least showy of any. A myrtle sprig with a few white 
buds, a spray of lavender, two splendid pansies, a small moss 
rose-bud, and an orange flower, with a few forget-me-nots, 
hidden by a sprig of sweet-scented verbena, completed the 
assortment. The mother commended the delicacy of her 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 413 

taste, and Esther begged that she might arrange the label, 
which she did by neatly printing her name upon a white rib- 
bon, with which she tied the flowers together. 

Esther herself arranged the flower-glasses, one at each cor- 
ner of the student's table. This table stood in the window- 
niche of a small room which projected from the tutor's sleeping 
chamber, and opened at one end upon a pleasant balcony. 
An empty book-case stood ready to receive his library, and 
everything had been carefully arranged for his comfort and 
happiness. The children did not expect him in the first stage , 
oh no ! of course he would not like to start so early ; but, 
nevertheless, they ran up the road twenty times in the course 
of a half hour to see if the stage were not approaching. 

At last a shout from George proclaimed its arrival; and 
father, mother, and children gathered around the door to wel- 
come the stranger. Esther alone was absent. She had stolen 
away at the first alarm, and with a beating heart stood gazing 
through the blind of her chamber window, too sensitive to 
allow her agitation and delight to be observed. 

" It may not be he, after all," prudently remarked George, 
as the vehicle approached the door. 

" Yes it is," said Clara, sagaciously ; " I see him on the top, 
with a red shirt on." 

This exclamation excited a general laugh, which did not 
subside till the driver had brought his horses up to the very 
door-steps. 

Mr. Sey wood opened the coach door, and a tall figure sprang 
out, encased in a long linen sack, and covered with an inch or 
two of dust. " Welcome, Mr. Liddell," said Mr. Seywood, 
cordially grasping the tutor's hand, and introducing him to his 
wife and children. 

" We hardly looked for you so early," said Mrs. Seywood. 

" I took advantage of the cool morning," replied the tutor. 
" Among my many sage habits, you will find me an early riser." 

" A habit which I hope you will teach us all to practise," 
said Mrs. Seywood,- looking particularly at George. 

Meanwhile Esther stood at the window above. A scowl 
gathered on her brow. " I can never be his scholar," she mut- 
3b* 



414 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

tered to herself, " Why need he look so much like Apollo ? 
(Esther had read mythology.) If he were only crooked, or 
lame, or bashful, how I could love him ! But he looks up 
with such clear bright eyes ! He is so handsome ! How can 
I ever speak to him ? " 

Then she thought of her bouquet upon his table, and was 
frightened at the thought. " To give him flowers, and yet 
never be able to speak to him ; to have welcomed him by so 
affectionate a messenger, and yet never after to address him a 
friendly word or look ! She would run and take the flowers 
away. He should have no cause to expect any confidence 
from her. He should receive his first impression of her from 
her silence and awkwardness. If he only thought her a fool 
at first, she should have nothing further to fear." 

Such were her meditations as she watched the young tutor 
while he stood conversing with her father at the door. She 
ran into his room to remove the flowers. She had just seized 
the glass that contained them, when she heard footsteps ascend- 
ing the stairs. " Good Heavens ! it was the tutor coming to 
his room ! " How could she escape without meeting him, 
face to face, at his chamber door. She dropped the flowers, 
and ran with desperation toward the hall ; but as she touched 
the latch she heard her father's voice immediately without, 
saying to Mr. Liddell, " We hope you will find your accom- 
modations here agreeable. If any improvement is needed, let 
us know it. You will find a little room adjoining this cham- 
ber, which is at your service for study. Please make yourself 
entirely at home here, and when you are refreshed from your 
journey, meet us at the dinner-table." 

Esther rushed back into the little study and shut fast the 
door. She sprang toward the opening that led out upon the 
balcony, but to her extreme vexation, it was locked, and the 
key taken away. She had no resource but to remain where 
she was, and keep the door fast between herself and Mr. Lid- 
dell. She stood braced firmly against it, with her hand pressed 
upon the latch. The tutor came presently and tried to open 
the door. Pale, trembling, with the perspiration starting from 
every pore, Esther firmly resisted his efforts. He did not 
renew them, supposing the door to have been accidentally left 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 415 

locked. Esther was congratulating herself that at the ringing 
of the dinner-bell she should escape undetected ; but this hope 
was the next moment frustrated by the entrance of a servant 
through the balcony door, bringing a ewer of fresh water for 
Mr. Liddell's chamber. 

" How now, Miss Esther, what are you doing here ?" he ex- 
claimed in astonishment ; but without waiting to reply, Miss 
Esther had availed herself of the open door, and hurried in 
mortification to her chamber. Here, overcome by fright, 
shame, and vexation, she threw herself upon her bed in a 
paroxysm of tears. The dinner-bell presently rung, but Es- 
ther could not compose herself to appear before the family. 
A servant girl was sent up to tell her that dinner waited. 
She returned word to her mother that she was sick with a 
headache, and wished to be excused. 

A new source of vexation now occurred to her in the recol- 
lection of having, after all, left her bouquet lying, fallen from 
the glass, upon the floor. She dared not again venture in 
pursuit of it. So, despite all the annoyance she had suffered, 
she must at last meet Mr. Liddell under all the disadvantages 
of a committed friendship. 

Mrs. Seywood, who, without knowing all the perplexing 
things that had occurred to disturb her daughter, suspected 
that her indisposition was caused by nervous agitation from 
the dread of encountering her new tutor, came up and adminis- 
tered a composing draught, which soon settled the poor girl 
into a quiet sleep. This lasted till about five o'clock, when 
Mrs. Seywood, again entering, found her awake and at the 
glass arranging her hair. 

" If you feel well enough," said the mother, " I will go with 
you to the schoolroom now. Mr. Liddell is there, prescribing 
the lessons for to-morrow. He has inquired very kindly for 
Esther, and wears your flowers on his bosom." 

Esther turned pale, but dared not refuse to accompany her 
mother. Her trembling limbs were hardly able to support 
her down the stairway. But when she heard her brother's 
voices in familiar and frank conversation with the dreaded 
tutor, her courage was a little reassured. Mr. Liddell met 
her kindly at the door, took her hand, and led her to a seat, 



416 PROSE SELECTIONS. ' 

where he stood for some moments, smoothing her hair, prais- 
ing her flower gift, which he still wore, and expressing many 
earnest hopes of their long continued friendship for each other. 

Mrs. Seywood hastened to reply in Esther's stead, for she, 
unhappily, had entirely lost her self-command, and was unable 
to lift her eyelids or to utter a single word. 

" Oh, I am such a fool ! How he will despise me ! " thought 
Esther. 

" Poor child ! How she suffers ! " thought the mother, 

" I like this timidity. Her sensitiveness charms me ! " 
thought the tutor, as each remained silent for a few moments 
after the introduction. 

This day was but the beginning of trials for Esther. The 
daily recitation hours, and her frequent meetings with Mr. 
Liddell, so far from overcoming her fear of him, only increased 
her reserve. She forgot her lessons, though most perfectly 
committed, blundered at the simplest questions, and almost 
daily retired from the schoolroom ready to burst into tears the 
moment she was alone. No one could be kinder, gentler, or 
more condescending than the tutor. He strove unweariedly 
to dissipate her embarrassment, and win her confidence. But 
the more kindness and interest he manifested, the more awe 
and timidity he inspired. He was puzzled. Was Esther 
really stupid and ill-humored, or did it aU arise from diffi- 
dence ? He was almost ready to believe in the first, but some- 
thing in her eye, in her blush, in her very constraint, kept 
his vigilance on the alert to detect a latent soul. 

Esther, on her part, was full of silent grief. More and more 
conscious every day of her awkwardness and apparent stu- 
pidity, she labored more and more every day to atone in pri- 
vate for her deficiencies. Though always a great reader of 
poetry and fiction, she had never before made such vigorous 
application to study. Her Italian grammar was entirely at 
her command when alone, yet she could not correctly decline 
a single word or quote a single rule in the presence of her 
teacher. She read through whole poems of Petrarch and 
tales of Boccacio, understood their beauties even, yet could 
not translate a line aloud in the schoolroom. When required 
to write a theme, she borrowed from Hannah More ; a forgery 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 417 

which the tutor could not fail to detect, and for which he 
gave her a slight reproof which almost broke her heart. After 
this she could never be induced to bring forward a single line 
of writing upon any subject. Yet in secret she wrote sheets 
of romance, of rhyme, of review, that would have done honor 
to much older intellects. 

" He is so beautiful, so good ! He knows so much, and 
talks so divinely ! If he could only know that I am not really 
a dunce — - if he could but read my thoughts for a moment I 
He told me to-day the story of Petrarch, to interest me in the 
study of Italian. Do I not already know, not only of Petrarch's 
love and sorrow, but cannot I also repeat his sonnets — yes, 
and whole tales of Boccacio's besides ? But he, ' uno spirto 
celeste, iin vivo sole ' — how can I utter in his presence words 
that in solitude almost overwhelm me ? And then I am so 
ugly, and he so beautiful ! When he fixes his clear bright 
eye upon me, and speaks to me with that sweetest smile, I 
feel so ashamed of my sharp nose, my yellow cheeks, and red, 
flying hair ! " 

So, in secret, grieved and lamented poor Esther. But in 
proportion as she suffered, her temper grew more patient and 
serene. The example of her tutor had great influence upon 
her unfolding character. His goodness and gentleness ruled 
and subdued her. Her petulance became restrained, and her 
kindness more assiduous. Only in his presence she seemed 
sulky and out of humor. 

Two years passed on in this manner, and while each of the 
other pupils had made rapid progress in study, Esther alone 
seemed to have derived little advantage from her lessons. So 
reserved was she, that even her parents knew nothing of her 
secret attainments. They were often surprised at the intelli- 
gence she displayed in her moments of unguarded conversa- 
tion with them, while in her studies she was apparently so 
unsuccessful. 

" Esther knows more than we think," said Mr. Seywood to 
his wife one day, as their daughter left the room. 

" I don't know how to understand her," replied the mother. 
" She is the most reserved being I ever knew ; and the most 
of all so to those she best loves. She seems frightened at the 



418 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

thought that one should notice any signs of intellect in her. 
I fear the poor girl suffers immeasurably from this timidity." 

"Is there no way to overcome it?" asked Mr. Seywood, 
anxiously. 

" I fear not. Every attempt to win her confidence seems 
to distress her. But she is an excellent girl. Her temper 
and manners have much improved. No one can be more 
gentle and kind-hearted than she." 

" She is much more interesting in her person, too. I begin 
to think, with you, that her hair is quite an ornament. If her 
complexion were only fresher ! " 

Of late there had been a good deal of village gossip and 
family comment about Mr. Liddell's attentions to Mary Gree- 
ley, the minister's daughter. She was a beautiful and ac- 
complished girl, captivating in her manners, and extremely 
amiable in disposition. The tutor was evidently much inter- 
ested in her society. He accompanied her in many of her 
. rides and walks, and spent several evenings of a week at her 
father's house. Mary, on her part, did not avoid these atten- 
tions, and it was currently reported that their mutual friend- 
ship had resulted in a matrimonial engagement. 

Esther was not deaf to these reports ; nor to the railleries 
daily addressed to Mr. Liddell, at the table. But she heard 
them all in secret. She never inquired respecting the affair, 
though her heart was not indifferent to its result. She often 
watched, through her window-blind, the rides and walks of 
the young friends as they passed, and some emotions shook 
her frame, and paled her cheek ; but what they were, only 
her own spirit and the Spirit above her knew. 

The term of Mr. Liddell's tutorship at length drew near its 
close. He was to depart in the autumn for Germany, where 
he designed entering one of its famed universities. It was 
already August. Geoi'ge was to enter college, and Willie to 
continue his studies under Master Morrell. Esther's atten- 
tion was to be devoted to music and drawing, in the hope that 
in these accomplishments she might excel her attainments in 
scholarship. 

One evening Mr. Liddell was sitting in one of the summer- 
houses in the garden, when Esther, Willie, and Clara passed 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 419 

by without observing him, and stopped under a small grove of 

trees, furnished with seats. 

" Well, Will," said Clara, " you will return again to the 
sage tutorship of Master Morrell. Tell us, Esther, how it is 
the old man reads Virgil." 

Esther imitated him, pulling the tip of her nose, and shuf- 
fling her feet in the dirt. " I never thought before," said 
Clara, " what made the end of your nose so sharp. You did 
it by mimicking Master Morrell so much. Now give us a 
scene from Tutor Liddell." 

Esther's eye and cheek brightened, and she drew herself 
up with dignity. " The Satyr may be imitated, but not 
Hyperion ! " she exclaimed, rebukingly. Clara and Willie 
laughed, and thenceforth designated the tutors by these 
names. Mr, Liddell, on his part, was as much surprised as 
amused by this remark. " Am I really so great in the eyes 
of this young girl? Then I have never understood her. I 
have supposed her cold or feeble-hearted ; that her nature 
was not susceptible of enthusiasm. But this does not sound 
like it. This ' Hyperion ' is a strong word from any lips, 
applied to a mortal man ! " 

When he afterward met her, it was with renewed kindness 
and courtesy, and an interest so marked that Esther felt it 
keenly. But it could not break the crust that had been so 
long hardening. She could reply only with blushes and mon- 
osyllables. These signs, however, were better understood by 
Mr. Liddell than before. " I have wronged her. She feels 
too keenly. It is this that makes her seem dull and cold. 
The deepest waters arc stillest and least transparent." 

The morning of Mr. Liddell's departure having finally 
arrived, he was leaving his room to take his farewells of the 
family, when Esther, pale and agitated, met him in the hall. 
She could not speak, and held out her hand to him, which he 
kindly and affectionately pressed to his lips. " You must not 
forget me, Esther," he said ; " for when I return my first visit 
Avill be here." 

Esther replied by a short, sudden glance, that expressed 
more than a vocabulary of words. Her lips moved tremu- 
lously, but no sound was audible. She placed a package of 



420 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

papers in the tutor's hands, with this inscription : " Esther's 
soul. Read it when alone, and far out upon the sea," 

As this inscription met his eye, he again grasped her hand 
as she was about to fly from him, and exclaimed, warmly, 
" Thank you, dear Esther. This is what I have long wished 
to read, but you would not suffer me." 

Tears fell from Esther's eyes upon the hand that detained 
her. She pressed it fervently for a moment, then tore herself 
from him, and rushed into her chamber. The tutor stood 
for some moments much affected by this parting. He had a 
small book of songs in his hand, which he had intended giv- 
ing her at his leave-taking, but in the surprise of the occasion 
he had forgotten it. He now left it at her door, and descended 
to the parlor, where the other members of the family waited 
to give him their adieus and good wishes. He could only 
silently press their hands, and receive their blessings. The 
parents felt as though parting with a beloved son ; the chil- 
dren as though losing a kind elder brother. The tutor's 
regrets were not less sincere. 

We do not intend following either of the personages of our 
little story very closely through the three years that followed. 
We wish, however, to look into the contents of that enclosure 
which Esther had called her soul. The tutor obeyed her 
instructions, and did not break the seal till he was many 
miles from shore, alone Avith the sky, the sea, and his own 
meditations. From among the papers that were enclosed, he 
first read the following letter : 

" My beloved Tutor : — I know not whether I am to 
excite your contempt or your sympathy by what I write ; yet 
I hope for the latter, when I recollect that in the course of a 
two years' observation of your character, I have never known 
you to express contempt for anything beneath the heavens. 
To this tenderness of nature I appeal in my mortifying con- 
fessions. 

" How strange a being I am ! Stranger to myself than to 
others, because better understanding the disparity between my 
secret and my open character ; between my esoteric and my 
exoteric being. (Your philosophic terms have not been lost 
on me, you see.) 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 421 

•' In your eyes, above all others, 1 must appear a dunce. 
No other name can express the dulness and awkwardness I 
have always manifested, which I should continue to manifest, 
were I to be in your presence, a thousand years, unless some 
miracle were to smite the rock beneath which the rapid wa- 
ters are perpetually gushing. I am not what I seem ! Oh, 
no ! something better and nobler, I trust, though weak enough 
at best. And I have suffered, I desire not to say how much, 
from the feeling that to ymt, above all others, I could not make 
myself understood. This suffering has daily grown upon me ; 
and now that you are about to depart, and I have no hope of 
ever seeing you again, (or if I should, what would it avail, 
since my lips refuse ever to become the organ of my soul ?) I 
feel that I should die of heart-break, were it not for this res- 
olution I have formed of opening my soul, in "part only, to 
your gaze. And this I can do, only in the positive belief that 
I never again shall meet you, till we meet where all spirits are 
unveiled, and it needs no speech to reveal the secret thought. 

" When I wish to describe myself to you, I feel powerless. 
How can I make my singularities understood — this desire 
to be known, and yet this painful shrinking from the slightest 
revealment of my true nature ; this sorrow at being misap- 
prehended, and yet this unconquerable reluctance to explain 
and justify myself? You, who are so sincere, so frank, can- 
not, I am sure, divine this conflict between the impulses and 
the will ; and yet not so much will, as a necessity laid upon 
me; some fatal spell, evilly imposed by nature. 

" Yet to pass through life unknown, for me, who have such 
a restless craving for sympathy, is a destiny to which even 
the inflexible perverseness of my will shall not doom me. To 
one, at least, — to him who has been my best earthly bene- 
factor, because my best and highest spiritual guide, — to you, 
my dear tutor, I will in part unfold myself. In the papers 
that accompany this letter, you will find partial revelations of 
my soul ; fragmentary passages from my book of life. They 
will surprise you, no doubt ; not so much by any elegance or 
vigor of composition they display, as by the modes of thought 
and feeling to which you will find my being subject. Ycsi 
36 



422 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

will find that I am not cold ; that rather my heart is too much 
heated and shaken by central flames ; that this very reserve 
that clings about me is but a kind of lava that has stiffened 
and condensed into an artificial incrustation. You will find 
that my studies, useless as in your eyes they appear to have 
been to me, are carefully treasured in my memory, and ready 
at every mental call. And this will, perhaps, more than any- 
thing else, surprise you. You will wonder at the folly, per- 
haps you will call it perversity, which has made me conceal 
everything I have acquired ; which has often incurred your 
remonstrance and reproof, rather than betray my secret. This 
had not been so, were my intellect of the common fashion ; 
but the consciousness of a singular velocity and skilfulness of 
perception and memory, the penetrating and thrilling certainty 
of my own genius, (for can I call it otherwise ?) has awed and 
alarmed the sensitiveness of my nature. Oh, it has been so 
sweet to me to know, and yet so terrible to betray my power ! 
To encounter the wondering glance — to excite astonishment, 
admiration, and praise — this has been my trembling horror, 
day and night. Were it only possible to be superior, and 
have one's superiority discerned without surprise, and appre- 
ciated without comment ; were it only possible to have all the 
world born and grow up with a silent recognition of one's 
greatness, and no admiring aunt or partial friend forever mak- 
ing allusions to one's talent ; this were, indeed, a happy sense 
of fame — this I could have prayed for — this would have 
made me blest ; but my timidity, my sensitiveness, my very 
soul itself, has fled into darkness at the approach of every 
curious investigation. I have even taken pride in your re- 
proaches, from a sense of their injustice. I have consoled 
myself with the feeling that I a^n, and that has atoned for all 
the bitterness of your suggestions as to what I ought to be. 

" You will think my present boasting quite inconsistent with 
my pretended sensitiveness and reserve. But, my dear friend, 
it is only the simple thought of my heart simply uttered. It 
is the confession of a veiled soul to the soul under whose 
glance it would henceforth walk unscreened. 

" There is reason why from others I should hide my pe- 
culiar gifts. They would not understand them, But from 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 423 

you I had every cause to look for encouragement and sympa- 
thy. Why, then, have I so feared you ? Because, my friend, 
you have seemed to me so high, so Hyperion-like, and I, in 
the contrast, so insignificant. My personal defects have had 
their share in this humiUty. My ugliness and awkwardness 
have been like a nightmare upon my spirits. Had I been 
beautiful, then you would have looked for intellect, and I 
should not have feared surprising you. But whenever I 
would have uttered myself, the thought of exciting your as- 
tonishment kept me mute. 

" But now, dear tutor, you are far away ; and if tones of 
music reach you from the distance, you will not ask whether 
the oaten-pipe be played by elf or brownie ; whether the wind 
be blowing through the rugged crevice of an unsightly rock, 
or touching the strings of a golden lyre. You will only know 
that the little duncess you could not teach is faithfully taught ; 
that the soulless and almost senseless child has the soul and the 
sense to suffer deeply, appreciate keenly, and love adoringly. 

" You will find a difference of some years between the dates 
of these papers. Some were written before I knew you. I 
enclose them, merely that you may see how much I have 
really developed in mind and character while under your 
daily influence. There is no completeness in these offsets 
from my thoughts; scarcely any consistency. They show 
evidences of continual transition, of a chaotic state, in which 
the elements of an organization are at work, but in such 
strange freaks of commotion, that the wisest philosophy would 
be puzzled to detect a positive determination toward unity. It 
is not because they are harmonious and finished compositions 
that I wish you to read them, but because they are my only 
means of revealing to you my soul, just as it really lives and 
acts within me. 

" And now, my dear tutor, having long enough wearied 
your patience, I have only to say, in conclusion, that my 
heart is freer for these confessions, and that in future 1 shall 
be happier. I shall live in the delightful consciousness that 
to one being, and that one most dear and good, I am known 
in part as I desire to be known. Much freer and nobler do I 
trust my soul will yet become, as it passes on in its immortal 



424 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

life. All that you have taught me by precept, and shown me 
by example, will abide and work within me. The results of 
my inward efforts and experiences cannot be known to you; 
for, having sufficiently annoyed you by my present revelations, 
I retire again into the cloud — the cloud no longer gloomy 
and dark, but golden with the glow of imaginary, if not real, 
sympathy. It would be impossible for me ever to meet you 
again, should circumstances throw us in the same neighbor- 
hood. I could never speak to you, or look at you, after what 
has now passed. It is in spirit, only, I would be known to 
you ; as a being who has lived in your presence, but who 
lives, henceforth, only in your memory. Farewell ! May the 
Father guide and keep you forever. Esther " 

Such was Esther's revelation ; and as she said, her heart 
was freer and happier for having made it. It seemed to have 
an influence upon her whole conduct. Her sullenness, what 
remained of it, melted away ; her manners became more soft 
and winning ; she interested herself more in life, and in the 
pursuits of her fellow-beings ; was, if not more lovely in char- 
acter, certainly more amiable in conduct. 

Her life flowed on in equable upper-tides, and in strong 
under-currents that were unseen. She pursued her mental 
discipline with new vigor, happy only in the acquisition of 
new truth and beauty, and in the hope of a more perfect and 
harmonious existence in the future and undying state. 

Her imagination, feeding wholly on the celestial and eter- 
nal, sublimated her mortal being to something finer and higher 
than its natural condition. " You might almost say her hody 
thought," in the excess of her intellectual life. This mental 
activity had inevitably its effect upon her health. Her grow- 
ing body could not gain strength in the fever of so much 
thought ; yet its proportions became graceful, though slender, 
and her face, if a shade too delicate in hue, was beautiful for 
the thoughtful earnestness that pervaded it. Even in gayety, 
it did not lose its pensive softness, and the most joyous ex- 
citement only kindled its spiritual radiation into a deeper and 
intenser beauty. 

The delicacy of her constitution did not alarm her parents, 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 425 

though it made them more watchful and tender. They 
attributed it to her immature age, and a too rapid growth of 
intellect ; which was, in part, the truth, though there were 
fires burning beneath which were undetected. 

Above a year had elapsed since Mr. Liddell's departure. 
The family often received letters from him, in which he affec- 
tionately alluded to his former pupils, and always with peculiar 
tenderness to Esther ; allusions that made her shrink, and yet 
which filled her heart with joyous throbbings. " He wishes 
me to know that he is not angry, that he does not despise me," 
she thought. " But yet, I almost wish I had not done what I 
have ; that even now he did not know me ; and yet that 
thought would kill me ! " 

Among her other acquirements, Esther had obtained a good 
knowledge of German, having studied it secretly during the 
time that her brother and his tutor were practising it in their 
ordinary conversation. The desire to listen to these conver- 
sations, which were mostly upon literary topics, incited her 
the more earnestly to the study ; and she had made rapid pro- 
gress before her tutor left. This he discovered by some trans- 
lations which he met among her papers ; and he occasionally 
sent her a German magazine, in testimony of this discovery. 

In one of these, Esther found a poem which she knew ema- 
nated from him ; a poem too obviously alluding to herself, to 
be misunderstood. In most delicate, yet fervent words, it 
expressed the influence which her spirit exerted over his. He 
likened her to one of those curious little music-boxes, which 
are passed mutely from hand to hand, and admired for their 
outward enamel, but from which one who knows the secret, 
can, by touching a hidden spring, cause an exquisite bird to 
fly forth, and sing with most surprising melody. Her own 
kindness had revealed to him that secret. Her soul, like the 
bird, had sung to him, and its music could never die from his 
memory. Such, in substance, was the idea of the poem ; and 
it was enough to set poor Esther's soul on fire anew, and to 
seal her spiritual destiny. Now, then, she might dwell in an 
exaltation of joy ; she might believe herself understood by the 
only being to whom she desired to be known, by the only one 
36* 



426 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

on earth she could ever love. She should never see him 
again. No, that was impossible ; that was not to be desired ; 
that would break the magic spell of her joy. But she could 
live in a golden atmosphere of spiritual love ; she could feel 
that in the universe of souls one beautiful one had encoun- 
tered and recognized her own ; and this was all she asked. 
He might marry, biit his soul could never wed ; he might die, 
but his spirit would forever live for her in progressive good- 
ness and beauty. 

Fed by the fever of such a love, " the central flames," as 
Esther termed her thoughts, burned with destructive force. 
While her spiritual life seemed one of exhilaration and 
strength, her physical being was tending to a fatal prostration. 
Nothing vital in her system seemed affected, but there was a 
nervous agitation and fever perceptibly undermining her 
strength. This inward fever increased daily as the period 
approached for the tutor's return from Germany. He had 
announced it in his last letter as to take place in the month 
of September ; and that season was already appearing upon 
the crimson boughs of the maple, and the purple clusters of 
the vine. 

" He will soon be here," said Esther, in her own thoughts, 
" but I shall be away. Will he sigh once at the thought of 
my absence ? Will he mourn that I am dead ? He will come 
in his beauty and goodness, enriched by a thousand new 
acquisitions from the intercourse of great men, and the impres- 
sions of foreign scenes. How eloquent he will be when he 
speaks of Germany ! How much he will say of Goethe, and 
Eichter, and Schiller ! But I shall not hear him. Happy for 
me that I die, for never could I meet the glance of his soul- 
penetrating eye ! Yes, I die like a poor stunted aspen, grow- 
ing on the bleak open hills. I am shaken to death. The 
winds that nerve the oak have rent me into fragments. The 
faint music I have made has not answered the end for which 
I was called into being. I shall live on in some nobler con- 
dition, and do a higher work, I trust. Oh, my tutor! Could 
you know with what devotion I have loved you ! Could you 
know how your being has swayed and permeated mine ! But 
the secret goes down to the dust, and you will live on in joy- 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 427 

ous unconsciousness. You will marry the good and happy- 
Mary. She will bless you with her calm affection ; you will 
never miss poor Esther." 

By the time that the tutor arrived, Esther's illness had 
gained such a hold upon her frame, that she was confined to 
her chamber, and much of the time to her bed. When told 
that he had returned, that he was already in the house, that 
he desired to see her, she was overcome by her emotions. 
She fainted repeatedly, and could only rest easy when they 
assured her that the doors of her chamber were locked, and 
that Mr. Liddell should not be allowed to approach them. 
He sent up a note, entreating her to see him ; assuring her of 
his grief at her illness, of his earnest attachment, and the 
extreme sorrow which he experienced at not being permitted 
to express his feelings to her in person. She sent a reply that 
she was deeply grateful for his kindness, that she rejoiced 
at his return, but that to see him in her present state of feel- 
ing would be a mortal stroke ; and that only when she felt her 
last breath approaching, could she consent to his admittance. 
She begged him to remain under the same roof with her as 
long as her life continued, and closed with the confession that 
in death as in life, he was to her the dearest and best object 
upon earth. 

To this decision Liddell was forced to submit, though it 
seemed almost impossible to repress the desire he felt to draw 
the fluttering and panting dove to his bosom, and make her 
feel how tenderly he sympathized with her sufferings, and 
how completely he understood her silent and shrinking nature. 
Meanwhile he passed the hours in gazing upon a beautiful 
portrait of Esther, which she had had painted a short time 
before, with the request that it might be hung in his room till 
after her death, and then be given to him as her dying legacy. 
She was taken in the dress of a nun, with one hand throwing 
back the white veil sufficiently to reveal her face, and the 
other pressing the crucifix to her bosom. Never was saint 
more beautiful, never vestal more holy, than this sweet image. 
Liddell gazed on it till he grew to think it a real saint, in 
whose presence his whole nature was becoming consecrated. 
He could not sleep at night, but kept a soft astral burning 



428 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

beneath the picture, that he might still gaze and gaze with 
unwearied devotion, and ever deepening love. Until now he 
had felt toward Esther as a father to a daughter ; a tender, 
protecting friendship, an earnest and holy sympathy, which 
elevated and softened his nature. But when he gazed on this 
beautiful face, with its dark and dove-like eyes timidly up- 
turned toward heaven, and its small lips half parted in a 
serene aspiration, his feeling changed to almost a zealot's devo- 
tion ; to a reverence and a tenderness too holy to be spoken ; 
which he would not and could not repress, which at once 
swept away all his past life, and lifted him into a new and 
ideal existence — a sphere whose only atmosphere was love, 
and poetry, and serene holiness. 

" Must she die ? Is there no hope ?" asked Liddell of the 
physician, one morning, as he descended from her apartment. 

" The result is uncertain," replied the doctor, drawing the 
tutor into the parlor, and closing the door. " She has no 
organic disease. Her symptoms are purely nervous, but may 
still form a fatal crisis. Everything depends upon the turn 
her feelings may take. She imagines, fully believes, that she 
is about to die. When the moment comes for this fancy to 
operate, she will send for you. Everything depends upon the 
effect of your interview. You, not I, are the one to save her. 
If you know her heart, and all that has caused her to suffer, 
you may have the power to restore it to tranquillity. But 
though by a happy chance this effect may be produced, you 
will not be responsible for a different and fatal result. Excess 
of any emotion at that moment may kill her — joy as soon, 
yes, sooner than sorrow. Be cautious, therefore, and aim to 
tranquillize her as much as possible ; and be prepared at any 
moment to receive a summons from her, for evidently she 
believes her death is very near at hand." 

Liddell turned away in the extremest agitation. " Good 
God ! " he cried, " what a responsibility rests upon me ! If I 
kill her — and I shall, poor flower, she is so fragile ! — then what 
remains for me but eternal regret and despair ! I cannot sur- 
vive such a stroke. If she dies, I, too, will go and meet her 
where there are no such sorrows to disturb us ! " 

This day wore on in the most breathless suspense. All day 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 429 

Esther lay with open, brilliant eyes, gazing, as it were, into 
the world of spirits. Her cheeks glowed, and her lips were 
moving with inarticulate prayer. The window beside her 
bed looked out upon the western sky. The sun went down 
in one of those gorgeous cloud-piles that are peculiar to our 
September evenings. In the heart of a deep purple range 
that stretched from north to south, glowed a fiery crimson, 
shooting out into streaks and fringes of the most radiant gold; 
the most beautiful assemblage of shapes and colors that ever 
met a human eye. 

Toward this scene Esther's face was turned. Her magnifi- 
cent hair, which lay in wavy masses upon the pillow, caught 
a richer tint from the sun-rays that shot upon its shaded red- 
ness. The same light played upon her veined and snowy 
temples, and nestled in the vermil hollows of her youthful 
cheeks. Her eyes outdazzled the brightness of the sunset. 
No words can describe their dilated size and splendor. One 
soft, white hand, not too attenuated, yet wanting the dimpled 
plumpness of health, was half buried among the heavy folds 
of her hair. The other lay tranquilly upon her breast. 

" Dear mother," she said, in a sweet, cheerful, yet slightly 
trembling voice, '* I wish now to see Mr. Liddell. Leave us 
alone for a little while." 

The mother arose, trembling, to execute this wish. She 
believed the fatal hour had come, at last, in which she must 
resign her brightest earthly hope. She tottered into the 
tutor's room, and speechlessly seizing his hand, pointed to 
Esther's chamber. He understood her; and pausing one 
moment, to summon up strength for the trial, he proceeded 
noiselessly to the bedside of the invalid. Good heavens ! 
what a picture of beauty met him ! His strength gave way at 
once. Tears, rapid and burning, streamed from his eyes in 
floods that could not be checked. They so blinded him that 
he could not see the calm smile with which she greeted him. 
She took his hand and covered it with kisses. 

" I could not help loving you," she said ; " and just in pro- 
portion as I loved, I shrank into myself in terror. To you I 
am but a simple and romantic child, to whom nature gave con- 
flicting elements of being. I die a child ; and the waves of 



430 PROSE SELECTIONS, 

your memory will soon close over me. But you are to me a 
ruling genius, every glance of v^^hose eye, and echo of whose 
thought, is my imperative law. Do not think me foolish for 
this. 'T is a necessity laid vipon me ; and in death as in life 
I cannot resist it. You weep for me in pity ; but I am too 
happy to need tears. Do not weep, dear tutor. Sit down 
and smile upon me, and let me die gazing into your eyes." 

" It is I, sweet spirit, who am misunderstood," he replied, 
seating himself so that he could throw his arm around her, 
and with the other hand drawing hers to his bosom. " You 
do not love me, Esther ; you fear me. It is I, only, who love 
truly. It is I, dear child, whose heart is breaking with vain 
yearnings. You will not repose in my love. You shrink 
from me as though I were not good ; as though unfit for your 
pure trust. Esther, sweetest, dearest, purest ! Will you die 
in this cruel way, without one little word or glance to say you 
believe in my love ; that you confide in my eternal faith ? 
Once, it is true, I did not know you — I was unjust to you; 
— but, from the hour that you so generously let me into your 
soul, I have loved you, and -you only. Now all my being 
dwells in yours. The future is nothing except as it is filled 
with thoughts of you. O Esther, one word, one look, to say 
you believe me ! " 

While he spoke, her burning eyes were gazing into his soul. 
Her breath grew shorter and more difficult. Her bosom 
heaved, and big drops of sweat started out upon her forehead. 
Still she did not turn away her eyes. Liddell kissed her lips 
in a passion of love and despair. The warmth of his caresses 
seemed to renew her strength. " Again ! again ! " she said. 
"O, there is life in these — yes, more — there is love !" More 
closely the tutor folded her to his heart ; more warmly, more 
passionately, he covered her lips, and cheeks, and bosom, with 
his kisses. It was the passion of agonized and intoxicating 
love ; and through the veins of the exhausted invalid it 
coursed like an elixir of fire. " Raise me," she said. "Raise 
me in your arms, and let me die upon your good and noble 
heart. O, yes, I trust in you now ! The veil is rent asunder 
forever, and I look in upon your love, and feel that I am 
fully repaid for all that I have bestowed. In any other hour 
I could not have borne this excess of joy." 

The tutor supported her in his arms, and they remained 
thus for a long while, gazing silently into each other's eyes. 
At length, a repose like sleep seemed settling upon Esther's 
face. " Is it death ? " asked the tutor, with a shudder. " O 



PROSE SELECTIONS. 431 

Heaven, spare her ! " Her eyes finally closed. Her lips 
parted. Soft breathings, like those of a babe, so soft as to be 
inaudible, and almost imperceptible, just moved the silken lock 
that fell upon her cheek. The physician entered ; and, when 
he saw the state in which she lay, his eye brightened, and a 
smile of hope played upon his lip. The mother, who had 
stolen for a moment to the door, caught this look of encour- 
agement, and hastened away to weep tears of sweet relief. 
The tutor sat with an inflexible countenance, repressing, by 
painful efforts, the violent motion of his chest, which shook 
like an earthquake beneath the sleeper's head. 

For hours he sustained this position, and continued this 
effort. The twilight deepened into gloom. The stars shone 
out. awful and bright, as though they knew the mystery of 
all destiny, and the -end of all fate. The moon came up tow- 
ard midnight, and tipped the western woods with light; that 
solemn light, so much more impressive than the radiance she 
pours down from her golden horn when full. The crickets, 
with a softened chirp, filled the night with their harmonies. 

"Will not this sleep exhaust her?" asked Liddell of the 
doctor, in a low, anxious whisper. The doctor shook his head. 
" 'T is too soft and quiet for that. It lies upon her breast like 
down." 

And so she slept on through the night, in that breathless 
silence. The father, mother, and doctor, sat round like spec- 
tres in the gloom, sleepless, silent, and deep in anxious thought. 
The brothers and little Clara had fallen asleep upon the sofas 
and divans in the parlor, too much frightened to retire to their 
chambers, and yet too young and unused to watching to sup- 
port the fatigue of suspense. Toward morning, however, the 
physician persuaded the family to retire, all but himself and 
the mother, who withdrew outside of the door, but not too far 
to hear the slightest movement of the sleeper. " She must be 
alone with Mr. Liddell when she awakes," the doctor said, in 
reply to the mother's desire to linger at her side. " She is too 
weak now to bear the slightest disturbance." 

How long those dawning hours appeared ! From the first 
distant crowing of the cock till the tint of sunrise on the west- 
ern clouds, seemed like the passage of an age. Yet Liddell 
gave no token of weariness. He seemed to have lost all sense 
of fatigue in the intensity of his solicitude. His arm still sur- 
rounded her, her hand still rested softly in his. Now the 
light, feathery clouds were changing from rose to amber, and 
gradually deepening into gold. The birds awoke, and filled 
the heavens with their music. A smile, like the faintest rip- 



432 PROSE SELECTIONS. 

pie of the air upon a wave, passed over Esther's pallid face. 
She breathed a low sigh, and slowly opened her languid but 
still brilliant eyes. She saw the tutor, but no surprise or 
emotion was visible in her face. She seemed too weak to be 
even capable of any feeling. Liddell gently relinquished her 
hand, and touched her lips with a weak cordial which the phy- 
sician had prepared. She swallowed it, and moved her head 
slightly, as though weary of her position. The physician 
approached, and assisted Liddell to remove her carefully to 
the pillow. She closed her eyes from excessive weakness, but 
did not sleep. Liddell still kept his watch, and administered 
the cordial. 

In this manner, without much change, the morning wore 
away. Yet in all hearts there was a deep and growing hope. 
The crisis had evidently passed, and Esther had escaped the 
peril. Such gratitude and such joy find not their occasions 
often in this mortal life. 

Not till toward night did Esther speak. It was to her 
mother, who was bending over her. " I have been thinking 
whether this be heaven," she said; "for surely some joy, 
beyond those of mortal life, surrounds and fills me." 

" 'T is the joy of returning health, my love," said the 
mother, smiling through her grateful tears. 

" 'T is something sweeter and deeper than that. It is the 
atmosphere of a pure and happy love. Is there not some 
spirit here that loves me still, even as I have dreamed ?" 

Liddell took her hand. " Yes, Esther, the faithful spirit 
that will love you forever," he cried. 

She pressed his hand. " Did you love me only ? she asked, 
earnestly. 

" You only ; believe me, dearest ! " he exclaimed, laying 
his hand on his heart. 

" And our destinies will never be parted ? " she continued. 

" Never ! Life, death, eternity cannot separate us ! " 

" Then the cloud from my spirit has passed forever. I 
live as others live, in the open world, with an open heart. I 
have feared and doubted in all the past, but in all the future 
I will only love and trust." 

Esther's life was true to her promise. As the cherished 
wife of the man she loved, her heart expanded like a flower 
in the sunshine. Her timidity and silence toward the world 
could not be overcome ; nor did her tutor wish it. It was 
enough for him that he could look into the deepest core of the 
sweet flower, and inhale its richest fragrance. All the more 
precious was the music-box whose bird sang only for him. 



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